


Nowhere Found

by DreamofInception



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drama, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-War, Rebellion, Romance, Slow Burn, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 75,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamofInception/pseuds/DreamofInception
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When you get older, you are going to learn that some things aren't how they should be, that things should be better."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! After a request, I decided to also post my stories to archive of our own! Hope you enjoy this first chapter, I should be posting the second chapter in a couple of days for you folks :)

i.

They practised for hours.

Hours upon hours of boxing stances, of upper cuts and right crosses, of jabs and hooks. Her father kept insisting she'd become stronger if she continued to push herself, but she felt weak and tired. She felt like having her mother's carrot soup and watching the sunset like they used to. But her father was persistent.

It was warmer in the living room then she expected, even with the windows open, and her shirt was beginning to stain with the inner release of her body, her arms trembling as she struggled to maintain them in a defensive position. Clarke clenched her hands, waiting, always waiting, for what her father was about to instruct her to do.

"Make sure you don't tuck your thumb in your fingers," her father told her. He reached forward, his hands overlapping hers as he guided her fists in the correct position. "There. Like that. Now swing."

She did.

Her father shook her head. "Again."

Clarke sighed. She dropped her hands, ignoring the way her father's lips curved, a pure indication that he was about to tell her to be strong, to never give up. She spoke before he got the chance to lecture her. "Why do I need to learn this anyway, Dad?"

Her father straightened his posture. He's been trying to avoid this conversation since he's been teaching her defence moves for the past few months. She didn't understand. There are Guards here, officers, people who can protect them from the horrors of what the war created that live outside the gates.

They're safe inside these walls, inside The Ark, that's what he always told her. That's what she was raised to believe.

"Come here." Her father crouched down, his hands extending towards her. Clarke took them and allowed him to pull her forward. He rested his grip on her shoulders. "When you get older, you are going to learn that some things aren't how they should be, that things should be better."

Clarke worried her eyebrows. "Why?"

Her father squeezed her shoulders. "Don't you worry yourself on that just yet, okay?" When she nodded, he managed a small smile. The feature looked strained on his face. "Remember this for me. Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in."

His eyes are big and red, and Clarke has never seen her father without his familiar look of mischievousness. She rested her hands on his and intertwined their fingers. Her voice was unwavering.

"I won't."

Her father grinned. "That's my girl," he murmured. He leaned forward to press his lips softly against her cheek before standing up, resuming to their previous positions. He nodded at her hands, clenching in fists. "Now twenty more minutes, your mom will have dinner ready soon."

Clarke rose her chin, curved her muscles, and swung and swung until her body ached and her mouth grew dry. She was panting by the end of the few final minutes, but her father was happy, and it made her smile, made it worth it.

* * *

 

ii. - SEVEN YEARS LATER -

Sometimes she wonders if what's outside the gates is better than what's inside.

It's something that all citizens of the Ark have wondered, have dreamed, have painted and drew and sold for additional rations. There are stories, campfire discussions that tell the tales of the bandits who scavenge the woods and murder those who are not protected by the security of a refugee base.

But neither of them has ever stepped a foot outside of the camp.

Clarke presses her face against the glass of the window, her eyes peering at the various colours that extend past the walls. The trees are beginning to brighten in the approaching autumn, a season where the Ark is busy with trades and rations in preparation for winter. A winter that comes every year, yet manages to kill the same amount of people.

It's a system, trading food for supplies, trading supplies for food. That's how the citizens of the Ark live. That's how the Exodus War left them, with the remaining survivors of the losing side being held in refugee bases located across the country. This is all they know. All Clarke remembers. Just living in a box and performing in monthly trades in order to receive enough food to see the next one.

Her father used to tell her that the way they lived was punishment for being on the wrong side of the war. He said, and evidently so, that the base guards only protected the more privileged side of camp and harmed the less privileged side.

She's heard of the incidents of course, of the one incident where Roma Rae was raped and then executed for falsely accusing a Guard. Only there were seven witnesses supporting her case, claiming she was telling the truth.

Chancellor Jaha disagreed.

"Clarke?"

Clarke blinks, her eyes tearing from the landscape in front of her to look at her mother, standing beside the kitchen table. Abby places her clasped hands in front of her, wringing her fingers. "The Trade is starting soon, darling," she informs her.

Clarke nods. "Do you have everything?"

Abby manages a sad smile, her eyes shifting to the surface of the table beside her. Medicine and health supplies they are able to create for extra rations lies in a pile on the wood. It looks smaller than last time, and Clarke can notice the bags under her eyes, indicating the hours she spent making them. Clarke knows, she has them, too.

"It's not much. Should be enough to receive an amount of rations to last us until next month," Abby mumbles, her tone yearning.

Clarke bites on her bottom lip. They haven't been able to make as much since her father died, each month being especially cruel with Abby's increasing shifts at the medical bay and Clarke's increasing amount of work at school. They struggle, but they get by. They have to.

Clarke takes the few steps towards her mother in two strides. She places her hand on her shoulder, her fingers wrapping gratefully around the material of her shirt. "It'll be enough, Mom," she reassures.

Abby smiles. It'll be enough.

There's a breaking of silence as The Trade horn sounds, informing the Ark citizens to begin meeting in the camp square and stand at their scheduled booths. They have the same booth every year, in the area with the least protection and the most theft. Not that the Guard does much protecting anyways.

Abby exhales deeply. "Ready?"

Clarke reaches forward, gathering the pile of medicine in a basket and covering it with a cloth. Her eyes shift to meet her mother's, brown and yielding. She takes her hand in hers, squeezing her palm.

"Ready."

* * *

 

iii.

Clarke's feet begin to ache by the late afternoon.

The square is crowded as expected for the month of October, members of the camp surrounding the booths that offer their favourite or needed items, items that include supplies for baking, or games for the backyard, or health care packages. There's a murmur of hurried voices as people attempt to bargain for special deals, as they beg to pay with one ration pack instead of two.

It's no use. The seller needs as much to survive as the buyer does.

Guards line the perimeter of the square, eyes shifting between passing citizens, hands wrapping instinctively around their weapons. Their bodies are pressed together as if to create a cage around them. No way in, no way out. Clarke smirks. A cage, that's what the Ark is.

Clarke glances at the remaining pile of medicine that rests on the booth, bottles and caps with names that their customers can barely pronounce. They've been able to sell a steady amount for six packs of rations, enough to last them almost two weeks. With the half mark of the Trade approaching, it's also enough to worry her into thinking they'll have to skip meals. Again.

Fortunately for them, the prince of the camp, Wells Jaha, spends every Trade at their booth, giving double the rations that they expect him to. This Trade, he gave them triple, given him and Clarke's previous relationship and him wanting to resume it.

It's understandable that she doesn't since his father got her father killed. It's a typical issue for him and his prior girlfriends.

"Clarke."

Her mother's elbow connects with Clarke's waist sharply. Clarke sighs, turning her body to her mother questioningly. Abby meets her gaze momentarily before she can speak, jerking her head towards the man who walks toward them, chin high and three guards accompanying.

The crowd parts a path for them, most of them glaring in surprise. The higher end of the population rarely bother to waste their time buying trades from this part of camp. More commonly, the more privileged citizens (those who aren't raped and starving and suffering) are those who's ancestor's were on the winning side of the Exodus War. The heroes.

Like her father said, life in the Ark is a punishment.

"Ms. Griffin," Chancellor Jaha greets as he approaches them, ordering the guards to the side with a swift of his hand. He turns back to them and nods in acknowledgement, eyes settling on Clarke. "Clarke, how is school?"

She swallows. Fuck you. "It's fine, sir," she tells him. She even manages a damn smile.

Jaha hums in satisfaction with her response. It makes her want to shove a ration down his throat. "That's good to hear. Do you mind if I speak to your mother for a few minutes?"

Clarke purses her lip, not liking the feeling of anxiety in her stomach. She blinks, glancing sideways at her mother, who nods in encouragement. Abby's frame is rigid as she taps a reassuring hand on her daughter's shoulder, her eyes never leaving Jaha.

"Of course, sir," Clarke agrees. He'd also have her permission to hang himself in the mean time.

Jaha smiles, graciously almost, at her before turning his attention to her mother. Abby acts instantly, stepping away from the booth, the place where she stood beside Clarke already cold and desperate to be returned to.

She grins tightly at her behind her shoulder. "Keep the booth under control."

Clarke nods. She exhales deeply, watching as her mother follows in step with Jaha, her face downcast in an attempt to shield her expression from her. The pair of them walk with their back towards her, the guards shortly behind. The crowd parts again at their exit.

She stares angrily at the outline of their frame. Jaha has never expressed any interest in how Clarke and her mother have lived their life, other than the occasional execution of a family member. She feels her body tense at the thought. If he even fucking touches -

"Miss. Griffin?"

Clarke flinches at the sound of her name. Her vision tears from the disappearing figures, tilting her face to the source of the deep voice that called her. Her gaze rests on a man in front of her, eyebrows quirked and hands shoved in his front pockets. The curls of his hair fall against his forehead, just above his dark eyes.

She blinks. "Sorry."

He offers a small grin, and she knows him, of course she knows him. Bellamy Blake. He's been coming to the booth every Trade for the past few months, trading the limited rations he has for medicine she knows he barely recognizes. He's almost ashamed when he asks for it, as if he's afraid of revealing the reason why he needs the medication.

Even though, by now, everyone in the East end knows.

It's hard not to hear the screams eliciting from Aurora Blake in the residence on the corner of Clarke's street. Clarke has even tended to her before after his younger sister, who's in her grade, Octavia, begged her for weeks to help their dying mother. Doctors and nurses are accustomed at a high cost, even those who work in the East end.

It's against the law, could very much get her killed, but she couldn't do nothing. Her father wouldn't do nothing.

Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in.

Bellamy glances behind his shoulder, eyebrows knitting together when he turns back to her. "Not usual seeing the chancellor in this part of town," he voices. His tone is deeper than she remembers, stronger. He crosses his arms over his chest. His arms are stronger, too.

Clarke pursues her lips, her eyes hardening. "I'm sure he doesn't like it either."

He hums in agreement, and there's a look in his eyes that suggests he holds the same disgust for Jaha such as hers. His gaze falls from hers, glare narrowing as he analyzes the pile of medicine in front of him. She watches as he mouths the name of the pills on his lips. Of course he knows the words. He's seen enough death and sickness by now.

"How is she?"

His eyes lift to hers, looking away momentarily, and she follows his line of vision to observe Octavia standing at a booth a couple yards away. Clarke sighs, they both have people to worry about protecting.

His voice is low when he talks. "Octavia doesn't seem to realize it's almost time," he tells her. He turns back to her, gaze returning. "I just need something to help minimize the pain."

Clarke nods in understanding. She reaches towards the pile of medicine and grabs a bottle of herbs her mother cooks for the patients who are slowly giving in to their sickness. She extends it towards him, and he takes it from her grasp, his skin brushing hers. He turns the bottle in his hand, eyes searching.

"She shouldn't be able to feel anything by the time . . . "

She doesn't finish her sentence, and he doesn't ask her to. He places the bottle on the table in satisfaction and reaches into the pocket of his pants. After a moment of silent searching, he pulls one ration pack from his jeans and places it in her palm. "It's not much," he tells her, tone cursing the circumstances, "but I hope it's enough."

The figures of Jaha and her mother reappear in her line of vision behind Bellamy's shoulder as they begin to return to the booth. Clarke looks at Bellamy, the bags under his eyes, the dirt and exhaustion on his face. She grins sympathetically, grins and thinks of her father as she leans forward to grab another bottle of herbs from the booth and tosses it towards him.

Bellamy catches it in his hands.

"It's enough."

He shakes his head. "Miss. Griffin - "

Clarke looks at him, and this is what humanity feels like. This is how it feels to be human. She jerks her chin towards the approaching images of Abby and Jaha who are gaining closer to where they're standing. "You better hurry, my mom isn't as a lenient," she warns him. There's a pause, and they're both silent and staring. "And it's Clarke," she decides to add.

There's a glint of gratitude in Bellamy's eyes that he seems incapable to speak on. He swallows thickly, frozen, not moving until he glances at his sister one more time, allows her appearance encourage him.

He looks at her then, his eyes dark and bold in contrast to her blue ones. Brooding and calm. His gaze doesn't leave hers as he takes the second bottle, doesn't leave hers as he begins to back away from the booth. "Clarke," he mumbles, in parting, in appreciation.

She nods at him, gestures for him to go, closes her eyes softly when he's out of sight.

_Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in._

* * *

 

iv.

The Trade ends five hours later.

The hush of the crowd has since vanished from the square, the pitying people with empty pockets having to return home and face the disappointed expressions of their family. It isn't unusual for there to be suicide-murders in the days following the Trade. It's better than starving is what they suppose.

Clarke lets the pounding of water wash at the dirt on her hands as she scrubs a cloth against a plate. This is tradition for her and her mother. They come home, have dinner, and Clarke does the dishes as Abby counts the pile of rations they made and the pile of medicine they sold.

This year, although, Clarke knows they sold more than they made. With the exception of Wells Jaha.

"Did we make much?"

It's silent, and Clarke glances over her shoulder to see her mother leaning her hands against the table. Her head is downcast, immobile. She's been like this since she returned to the booth after speaking with Jaha. "We could have made more," she tells her, her voice strained.

Clarke sighs. She places the wet plate on the rack to let it dry with the others. Of course they could have made more, they always can. But her mother works at the medical bay, and jobs can get desperate people a few extra rations and a source to get supplies from in order to participate in the Trade. They'll manage.

Turning to face her mother, she leans her body against the kitchen counter. "I'm not sorry for that," she whispers.

"You shouldn't be sorry. You should be terrified."

Clarke can feel the tension of her body build as her mother speaks the words. She knows who's voice that is. She knows who's fear that is. Jaha. She's looking at her mother's back when she speaks. "What did he say?" she questions.

Abby exhales deeply. She lifts herself from the table and turns to face her. Her expression is as torn as Clarke expected.

"He wants us to stop our visits to those who need it."

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it . . .

They've always figured Jaha would find out about their additional work at the houses that need it. There are sick people, sick people who can't afford the luxury of hospitals. Sick people who's family has to watch them suffer without being able to do anything. There's Bellamy Blake, there's his mother, his dying mother, and there's Bellamy. Bellamy. A son watching his mother die.

Clarke feels her heart falter and it hurts. This is not fair, this is not what humanity does to each other. "What?" she manages to say. Her voice is barely a whisper, barely a sound, yet it still sends a cold sensation down her body.

Abby shakes her head. It hurts her just as much and she doesn't try to hide it. "This place is built on a system. If we perform in procedures that are against this system, then, in theory, we are against the system as well. And we are punished. We would be executed."

Executed. Clarke hates that word. Hates that idea. Execution by hanging, a hanging in the camp square for everyone to see, for the unprivileged to fear for and for the privileged to be entertained. There's an execution every week. There was an execution for her father.

Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in.

Clarke isn't scared. She's furious.

"So we just let them suffer?"

Abby struggles to say the word. But Clarke knows what she is about to say, already knows what Jaha had told her to say. "Yes," she responds, voice heavy.

Clarke shakes her head. This is now howe she wants to live, to survive. She does not want to turn from those who require her help. "This is wrong," Clarke tells her. This is wrong. This is poisonous.

She doesn't need to say it, her mother already knows. Her mother has lived in the Ark for longer than she has, has seen more death and weakness and suffering. This is how they live. This is how they spend their lives, going from Trade to Trade, starting a family only to curse it due to the underwhelming amount of food.

This is it. This is their life.

Abby steps forward to where her daughter is leaning on the counter. Her fingers twirl around a strand of Clarke's hair before she tucks it behind her ear. The gentle gesture isn't enough to rid Clarke of her shivers.

Her voice is pained when she speaks. "That's the Ark."

That night, as Clarke lays awake in her bed, the sound of Aurora Blake's screaming echoes throughout the camp. And she can't help. She can't do anything.

That's the Ark.

* * *

 

v.

Ark History is a boring class.

It's been a couple of days since the last Trade, and the discussion Clarke and her mother had afterwards is still a conversation she plays on repeat inside her head. The laws and rules that she must refuse to help people, must refuse to make their life easier. It's bullshit.

And so is Ark History.

The class, and most of the population of students at Ark High, is segregated into two different sides. This isn't by law, or by suggestion, but by the sheer truth that the privileged and unprivileged students cannot interact without either one of them trying to punch the other. Usually, when that does happen, the privileged gets their ass kicked.

Honestly. It's the only entertainment the unprivileged gets.

And so yet again, the two opposing sides of the Ark have the same layout in her Ark History class. The teenagers who grow up in the west end seem a lot more interested in the importance of the Exodus War and the amount of casualties they had in comparison to the losing side. To Clarke's side.

Because, apparently to Mrs. Finch and the other privileged students, the Exodus War was necessary and fair. That the outcome of the war has a good idea of how humans should treat each other and how humans should live. That goodness has come from the Exodus War. That, thankfully, the Ark has come from it.

Yes. Yes, thank God for the Exodus War.

"Only two more months, Clarke. Two more months and we're out of here."

Clarke smiles at Harper's words of encouragement as they walk down the hallways of Ark High. She doesn't usually spend her time trying to make friends at her school, the reason being she worries more about making sure her mother is comfortable with their lifestyle, but Harper is a friend. A nice one, too.

"We still have to deal with this crap after we graduate. It's going to be awesome," Clarke huffs.

Harper shakes her head in agreement, a grin playing at her lips. They step outside of the school, the autumn sun a warm sensation to the coolness of Ark High. A coolness that runs uncomfortably under Clarke's skin every time she attends. It's the only building where she has ever known what air conditioning feels like.

Harper seems to bask in the sunlight as well, passing by the scurrying of students desperate to get home with ease. "Imagine if we didn't have to. Imagine if we only knew - "

She stops short, eyes falling in front of her with a worried frown. Clarke raises an eyebrow and follows her line of vision to where she's staring at the person standing in front of them.

Octavia Blake.

"Hey, Clarke. Can I talk to you for a second?"

Her voice is a whisper, almost low enough for Clarke to miss it. She nods her head, turning to Harper, who still has a quizzical look on her face. Octavia Blake doesn't talk to anybody at school.

"Don't wait up. I'll come to your house when I'm done," Clarke informs her. She rests a hand on her back, and Harper stares at her momentarily before grinning. She begins to walk down the block moments later.

Clarke turns back to Octavia. Something must be wrong.

Clarke receives the confirmation to that assumption quickly. "My mom's been getting worse," she murmurs. Her eyes shift to the crowd of students around them that are parting from the building. "I don't know what to do."

Clarke shakes her head. "The medicine I gave your brother should work."

Octavia shrugs. Her hair falls loosely around her shoulders, and Clarke doesn't notice how exhausted and desperate she looks until she tucks the strands behind her ears, presenting the drooping of her eyes.

She hugs her textbooks closer to her test, gaze burning. "Sometimes it doesn't," she tells her, and Clarke remembers the screaming she heard coming from their house a couple days. "Sometimes it works, and then sometimes she screams more."

Clarke sighs. She knows what that means. She knows she doesn't have much time left. She bites on her lip, struggling to answer.

"Octavia!"

They both turn to the source of the person calling her name, and Clarke can hear Octavia sigh heavily when Bellamy comes into view, his arms outstretched in annoyance. Clarke's heard the stories, the Blake siblings, love each other so much they hate it. Clarke's always envied those who had someone like that.

Bellamy begins to walk towards them, his young face noticeably older as he passes through the teenagers around them. He nods at Clarke in acknowledgement when he reaches them, his eyes averting to Octavia. "You know mom is waiting - "

Octavia ignores his presence and looks to Clarke. "Is there something you can do or not?"

Clarke exhales deeply. Her heart suddenly feels heavy in her chest under the desperation of her gaze. And then Bellamy is looking at her, questioning, knowing, and the pressure multiplies. The pressure becomes more painful, because there's nothing she can do, even if she wanted to. And that feels worse.

She slowly shakes her head, eyes softening. "Octavia . . . "

Octavia scoffs. She swallows thickly, a notable lump moving through her throat, and her gaze hardens. "You know what," she grits through her teeth, sharp edges scraping, "forget it."

She steps forward, her shoulder hitting Clarke's as she leaves, her footsteps heavy and stomping. Clarke sighs and tucks her hair behind her ears, watching as Bellamy turns to follow her. He pauses momentarily, turning his body to face her, his expression unreadable.

"She still thinks she has a chance of surviving," he explains. He doesn't need to. She gets it, she does. She's been desperate before, that's how her relationship with Wells started.

Clarke nods in understanding, but she can still feel the burning sensation of tears at the back of her eyes. "I get it," she mumbles. It's okay, she gets it. This is what the Ark does to people, turns them against each other.

She expects Bellamy to leave, expects him to give her the same treatment her sister did. But he doesn't. He stands there, expression unwavering, his gaze focusing as he looks at her. She doesn't know what he found, but it's enough to make him stay.

"Thank you," he voices, his tone a soft contrast to his sister's previous one, "by the way, for the medicine."

Clarke nods. His eyes make it hard to look away. "Yeah," she whispers.

Bellamy sighs, offering her a sad smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He looks away then, and the loss of connection weighs heavily on her as he turns from her, towards Octavia.

She watches as he jogs up to catch up to her, watches as Octavia throws her hands up when he tells her something, watches as they argue.

At least her actions were enough to satisfy one Blake sibling.

* * *

 

vi.

The sun is beginning to lower behind the sky as Clarke scribbles notes on her textbook, small doodles that reflect her disagreement in the text. She's on her stomach, her feet in the air as she lays on Harper's bed. Ark History homework is as boring as Ark History.

Her pencil glides towards the illustration of a man she recognizes. Commander Dante. She's heard Mrs. Finch speak of him, how he led the losing side of the Exodus War to a battle they had no hope of winning. How he fought to save as many lives as possible, even at the expanse at his own life.

Mrs. Finch says he's a tragic figure in the war, but the unprivileged side of the Ark see him as a hero.

"Hey Harper?"

Harper looks up from her spot on the floor, her own pencil pausing in her hand. Her eyes are narrow and light when she looks at Clarke. "What's up?" she wonders.

Clarke sighs. She closes her textbook and pushes it to the side of the mattress, lifting herself into a sitting position. "Do you think we're supposed to be like this?" she asks her. She's never talked about it with anyone other than her mother. She doesn't know what other people think, alway's assumed it was the same thing.

Harper shrugs. "I don't think it matters what we think," she answers, and returns to her homework.

Clarke shakes her head. She leans forward on the bed, wanting, needing her to understand. This is what her father would do, this is what her father would want her to do. Get people to understand and fight back.

"It does."

Harper exhales deeply, turning back to her. She takes the bottom of her pencil and points it to a illustrated figure in her textbook. Jaha. "Tell that to him," she challenges, and Clarke knows she wants the same things, just doesn't know how to get them.

Clarke understands, because neither does she.

She sighs, getting up from the bed and taking her textbook with her. She places the book against her chest, placing the pencils in her front pockets. It's dark outside of the window, and Clarke can see the Guard lining up on the streets for security reasons.

"I should probably get going," she tells Harper when she turns back to her. "My mom should be back from the medical bay soon."

Harper nods. "Yeah. Okay. I'll see you around, Clarke," she bids. She offers a smile, and Clarke see's the line between her forehead, see's her thoughts examining the conversation they just had.

Clarke walks towards the door, her hand on the doorknob. She glances over her shoulder at Harper and breathes deeply.

"I don't think it's supposed to be like this, by the way."

And then she leaves, exiting her room, and entering the East side of the Ark.

* * *

 

vii.

The chill from the autumn air makes Clarke shiver as she walks along the perimeter of the camp to her cabin. It's dark outside except for the occasional lanterns that light the pathways, and the reflection of a Guard's badge as they stand spaciously to the side.

Clarke thinks of her mother being home soon, thinks of the dinner that will be prepared and served when she returns. She wonders if she'll recall her conversation with Harper to her mother, wonders if she'd get angry for talking about the "R" word.

She rubs her hands against her shoulders, breathing deep, knowing that her cabin is only a couple minutes away. She's momentarily distracted by the hum of voices that echo throughout the air, and she looks to find two guards staring at her, their heads close as they whisper.

Fuck.

Clarke begins to put a quicker pace in her step, and she hears footsteps following, tries to remind herself Guards are there to protect, not to harm. But then she hears a whistle, and remembers Roma Rae, and she doesn't like the feeling of panic that swells in her chest.

"Hey pretty lady! Where you going?"

Damn it, damn it, damn it. Her parents used to warn her about these type of situations, how she should continue to walk, don't stop walking. Yes, Clarke, just don't stop walking. You'll be fine if you don't stop walking.

She feels them before she turns the corner onto a street, feels the two guards walk side by side beside her. She recognizes them, they usually stand outside of the medical bay when Clarke visits her mother at work. She knows they recognize her too.

"Abby's daughter, huh?"

The older one, Dax, pounders, his eyes sneering as he stares down at her. He jerks his chin towards Connor on the other side of Clarke, both expressions hungry. Clarke slowly peels her arms from her chest, clenching her fists at her sides.

Her heart is fast, and her breathing is overlapping, but she clears her head, trying to remember what her father taught her.

Connor reaches forward to twirl a strand of her golden hair. "Well, Griffin, why don't we - "

Clarke gasps when she feels him touch her, and she turns towards him, her palm connecting with the right side of his face. The stinging of her hand subsides when Dax wraps his arm around her waist, another hand covering her mouth, and pulls her into a nearby alleyway.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . .

Her head cracks against the brick wall as Dax slams her onto it, her textbook falling below them as his hand slipping from her mouth. Clarke uses the advantage of releasing a scream, strong and powerful, and she's screaming and screaming and screaming until she feels Connor push her hands above her head, and Dax cover her mouth again, this time with his lips.

No. No. She bites down on the tongue that tries to open her mouth, hard, and he draws away from her, spitting out blood. Clarke screams again, desperate, hoping for anyone to hear. Her eyes search the houses around her, and her heart plummets when she see's bedroom lights go out, when she sees people hiding.

Connor connects his knee with her stomach, and she coughs, her breath halting.

"Shut the fuck up," Connor growls.

Clarke struggles against his hands that holds her arms up and her eyes analyze the scene around her. Remember what your father taught you, Clarke. You stupid idiot remember something.

Her eyes land on Dax, wiping at his mouth, and she grunts, lifting her foot and pushing her heel against his private area.

Dax doubles over, and the slight fall in Connor's grasp allows her to rip herself from his embrace. She pushes against Connor, pushes him against the wall, and runs in the direction of her house. Run, run, run.

But it's not enough.

Connor fists her hair in his grasp and pulls her backwards. She stumbles, tripping over her feet and falling backwards onto the pavement, her head impacting harshly with the concrete.

Clarke blinks. It's blurry. She can't fucking see.

She feels a weight on top of her and it doesn't take long for her senses to realize someone is straddling her. Hands connect with her cheek, fists slamming against her flesh, and she cries out, feeling blood and weak. Weak and blood.

Everything hurts, everything and everywhere.

There's a crunching of knuckles, a sound of grunting, and the weight is gone from her body. She gasps at the breaths that are slowly returning to her. Her chest feels heavy and laboured, but the guard on top of her is gone, she's weightless.

Clarke coughs. The sound of scrabbling still echoes throughout the alleyway, and she turns her body painfully so she's lying on her stomach. She props herself on her elbows, looking towards the source of the noise.

God damn it she still can't fucking see.

She can make an outline of figures as her vision begins to clear. Can see a person on top of Connor, punching him, hitting him, can see Dax walking behind them, his hands raised.

Connor pulls out his gun, pulls the trigger, but the person moves his position on top of him, and the bullet goes through Dax's forehead.

Dax drops to the ground. Dead.

"Fuck."

That voice. Holy shit she knows that voice.

Bellamy Blake.

No. Damn it, no. Leave, Bellamy.

He curses again as he's thrown to the side, as Connor grunts and begins to hit him from his position on top. Clarke can see the outline in the night and she struggles to lift herself from the ground, but she manages.

Fight, God damn it, fight, Clarke.

She limps towards the textbook laying on the pavement across from her. Her vision is still blurring when she picks it up, when she holds it steadily in her hands. She stumbles towards the scuffle in front of her, raises the textbook above her head.

There's a crunching noise when she crushes it against Connor's skull. A lifeless noise as he stops his movements on top of Bellamy.

Connor falls to the pavement, crashing, and Clarke does the same, her body surrendering now that the danger is gone.

She breathes deep as the reminder of pain occurs, and she places her fingers on her face, feeling open flesh and wounds. Her hands come in front of her face. Blood. So much blood. When she lowers them, she see's Bellamy crawling towards Connor, his fingers at his pulse.

Clarke swallows thickly. "Is he?"

It's dark out, but she can still see him nod. Can see the curls of his hair damp with sweat. "Fuck. Fuck," he curses.

Clarke can feel the shattering of her heart inside her chest. Capital crime - the death of a guard. She thinks of self defence, then is reminded of Roma Rae, of her pleads. Reminded of her execution.

No.

Bellamy lifts himself from his position on the ground. He bends forward to grab Connor's ankles, dragging his corpse across the concrete, towards the dumpster. He grunts as he lifts the body into his arms, a dead body, and throws it into the dumpster, doing the same for Dax.

It doesn't matter. Jaha will figure it out. He'll figure it out and he'll kill them.

Bellamy wipes his hands on his jacket, trying to rid his skin of death and blood. After he's satisfied, he walks over to her, his steps heavy to her ears. He bends in front of her, his hands reaching to softly grip her shoulders.

"You okay?"

No. "Yes."

His eyes search her face, and she can feel him wince when he notices the blood, can see him swallow thickly. He closes his eyes momentarily, his fingers softening around the material of her shirt. "Okay," he whispers when he opens them, "come on."

His arms wrap around her waist, pulling her up into a standing position. She leans into him, her forehead against his neck and her arm around his shoulders. He holds her close, her cheek against his heart as they limp away from the alley, away from the crime scene.

* * *

 

viii.

She's almost unconscious by the time Bellamy assists her in walking up the porch steps to his cabin.

Her head is lulling to the side, her breathing laboured, and the only thing keeping her mildly awake is the continuous words of comfort Bellamy whispers, the continuous words to stay alive.

Stay alive, even though, in about a days time, both of them will be dead. Stay alive, even though she's never felt alive before anyways.

Bellamy fumbles with his key when they reach his door, his arm still tightly wound around her as the other inserts the key into the doorknob. He twists the knob, opening the door to his home and helping Clarke over the thresold.

Octavia appears at the top of the stairs. "There you are. I was starting to - Holy shit. Clarke."

She stumbles down the steps, her hair pulled into a pony tail and her brown eyes shifting between the two bloody people in front of her. Bellamy shakes his head. It's not his blood."Help me get her to the couch," he tells her.

Octavia nods. She lifts Clarke's other arm around her shoulders, her and Bellamy almost dragging her to the living room. They gently lower her onto the cushion of the couch, her body propping up against a pillow.

Octavia splutters at the new found blood on Clarke's skin under the light. "What the fuck happened?" she demands. She kneels in front of Clarke, her hands resting on her knees as Bellamy paces the room, his hands at his temples.

"Guards."

Octavia swallows. "Did they . . . "

Clarke shakes her head, blood bubbling at the shape of her lips. "Almost," she whispers, and the answers descends a feeling of uneasiness in the room. Octavia gently squeezes her knee.

She knows what they're thinking. Poor girl, almost raped. Poor girl, almost killed. But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore except for the fact that Bellamy and Clarke murdered two Guards tonight. Murderer. That's what she is now.

Clarke can hear Bellamy clear his throat, her eyelids are too heavy to see anything. "Where's mom?"

"Sleeping," Octavia informs him.

Bellamy nods. His arms cross over his chest, calculating. "Good," he says, and then Clarke hears footsteps, his footsteps, quicken in a different pace. "Just, keep her awake, clean her wounds, I'm getting Abby."

Clarke panics. Her mother can't see her like this.

Octavia tilts her head as Bellamy leaves, and her touch disappears from her knee then, and Clarke craves the soft contact yet again. She drops her head against the cushion of the couch behind her, her eyes drooping, mouth tasting blood.

This can't be it. This can't be how it ends.

Her father couldn't even taught her how to defend herself for nothing, her mother couldn't have spent hours making extra rations for nothing. Her countless days spent trying to find a way to make her mother's life easier can't be for nothing.

Her mother. God, just don't hurt her mother when she's gone.

There's a gentle padding against Clarke's cheek, and she opens her eyes to see Octavia on the couch beside her, wiping her face with a cloth. Her other hand comes up to hold her chin as she scrubs against the blood. There's no use, there's too much.

"How do you feel?"

It's a stupid question that they both know the answer to, but Clarke decides to lie for her anyways. "Fine."

Octavia sighs, her lips turning into a small frown. She presses the cloth lightly against the dripping of blood on Clarke's cheek, her fingers soothing against the open flesh.

"God," she whispers, her voice strained, "now I feel bad for yelling at you today."

Clarke can't help the low murmur of laugher that releases from her. She stops short, a pain rising in her stomach, and it makes her cough uneasily. Blood squirts from her mouth and down her chin.

Octavia hushes her, shaking her head. "It's okay, it's okay. Don't laugh. Just heal," she tells her. She uses the cloth she's holding to wipe at the splash of red that was just poured from her lips.

She looks at her then, her eyes yielding, and Clarke can see she's as scared as she is. As broken and damaged as Clarke looks. Octavia's already losing her mother, and she'll probably lose her brother too. All in one month, one lifetime. It's not fair.

"Clarke!"

The sound of her mother's voice is strained and frightened as it echoes throughout the walls of the cabin. There's an inner desperation that awakens at the sound, a needing, her eyes searching frantically for her. Octavia drops the cloth from Clarke's face, lifting herself from the couch and standing to the side.

Abby appears in the living room then, Bellamy behind her, her hands at her mouth.

"Oh no," she mumbles between her fingers, "Oh, baby."

Abby takes the steps towards her, her frame shaking and vulnerable as she sits herself on the couch. Her fingers trace the forming scars and bruises on her daughter's face, and she feels weak. So weak. Her daughter.

Clarke breathes deeply when she feels her mother's hands form her face, her palms against her cheeks. A familiarity of comfort overwhelms her, and she's reminded of when her mother would hold her as a child, scare the nightmares away.

Only this isn't a nightmare. This is reality.

Abby turns her head, glances over her shoulder at the man standing behind her, his arms crossed across his chest. The man who saved his daughter, for now. "Thank you," she whispers, and he nods, in understanding, his eyes hooded.

"I know this issue isn't solved," he mumbles, and his eyes can't seem to look away from the large cut that scrapes along Clarke's jaw, "but I'm sure she needs her rest. We can figure it out when she wakes up. You're both welcome to stay."

His eyes shift then, towards Clarke's drooping ones, and she notices the glint of sadness in them before he touches Octavia's shoulder and leaves the room.

* * *

 

ix.

Clarke hisses as her mother presses the cloth against a sensitive patch of skin, her teeth greeting together.

Abby winces, pulling the bloodied cloth from her face. "Sorry," she mumbles, her brown eyes calculating. She reaches forward to remove a strand of hair from Clarke's face, tucking it behind her ear. "Talk to me. Please."

Clarke sighs. They've been in the living room, Abby applying pressure to her daughter's wounds, for two hours, both of them silent. A silence filled with burning questions and expecting answers, a silence filled with the lack of detail about the night they just experienced.

A silence that drags and drags to the thought they're both dawning to hear.

Clarke shifts her position on the couch so she can better face her mother. She looks at the bags under her eyes, the despair that rounds her cheeks. If she wants to talk, they need to talk about the outcome they both know is going to occur.

"They're going to kill Bellamy and I, aren't they?"

Abby's breath hitches, and her eyes instantly darken. "We'll figure something out - "

Clarke shakes her head before she can continue. There was a line, a line in humanity that Clarke vowed herself to never come close to, to never even look at. She crossed that line the moment she cracked the textbook over Connor's head. The moment she took another life.

There's a trembling inside her when she allows herself to remember it. Allows herself to remember she isn't the only victim. Allows herself to remember that Bellamy is risking his life because of her. This is happening, all of the blood and the tears, is happening because of her.

Her voice is small when she speaks again. "Does this make me a monster?"

"Clarke . . . "

There's a bursting of emotions that seems overwhelming suddenly, and Clarke chokes on the sobs threatening to escape. She thinks of how it sounded when Connor's skull crunched, remembers the bullet entering Dax's forehead, feels the anxiety she felt when they pushed her into the alley, their arms caging her.

"They didn't give us a choice," she whispers, voice already breaking, "they never give us a choice."

And then she gives in. Gives in to the inevitable outcome of what's ahead, gives in to the guilt and the fear and the longing for another life, a better life her father encouraged her to find.

Her head drops, but her mother is there to pick it up, is there to wipe the tears as she finally releases her sobs. Clarke doesn't bother to gather herself, doesn't think of Bellamy and Octavia, who can probably hear her being weak, all she thinks about is her mother's arms around her, and how, for the first time, they don't make everything better.

* * *

 

x.

_There's blood everywhere._

_Red seeps into the skin of her body, every inch, crawling along her flesh and covering every pale patch it encounters. Becoming her, being her. All she sees and breathes is red, all she is blood and death._

_Death. Death to what's to come and what she already brought._

_Clarke scrubs at the blood that sticks to her, but it doesn't peel, doesn't move. Her entire body is basked in the aftermath of Connor and Dax, of Bellamy, of whatever innocence she was satisfied with keeping. Whatever innocence gone. Dead._

_She screams, shrieks even, but no one hears. No one sees. No one is around, and she's alone, alone with blood on her skin and surrounded by nothing but darkness. And death. Always death._

_I am become death._

"Clarke? Clarke!"

Clarke gasps, her eyelids fluttering open at the sound of her name. Her breathing is quick and heavy, her chest rising quickly from where she lays on her back on the couch. She feels the weight of hands on her shoulders, her eyes following the arms to the face of who they belong to.

"Bellamy?"

He nods, even in the dark she can see the comparison in his eyes. "It's just a nightmare," he reassures her, voice deep. He's sitting on the edge of the couch, his expression blank, and he draws his hands away from her shoulders, his fingers draping past a blanket she hadn't realized was comforting her.

Clarke sighs. Nightmares and reality are all the same now.

Her eyes shift from his face to study the room, landing on her mother's sleeping form on a cushioned chair. She stares at her, stares at the cloth she holds in her hands, the ring she still wears on her finger.

This isn't fair. Bad things shouldn't be happening to her anymore.

"She refused to go to sleep," Bellamy informs her. His voice matches the blackness that surrounds them. "I offered to stay up."

Clarke tilts her head back to him, eyes locking in a steady gaze. She ponders the flatness of his expression, the exhaustion in his eyes. He needs the sleep more than she does.

"You don't have to," she tells him.

Bellamy shrugs, his lips pursing in a straight line. "I don't think I would be able to sleep anyway."

She sighs. She's sure if her body wasn't collapsing on itself she wouldn't have been able to sleep either. Her eyes scan the bruises underneath his cheek bones, the cut on his lip. His skin keeps the stain of blood on his neck, and she knows it isn't his.

Clarke looks at him. He lost as much as she did, he's sacrificed as much as she has.

She doesn't know where to begin, how to show her appreciation. Her fingers curl around the material of the blanket, squeezing to find her voice. "Thank you," she murmurs. She swallows thickly, doesn't know how else to say it, how else to show him.

Bellamy stares at his hands in his lap. "I guess we're even now, huh."

Clarke offers a small grin, the attempt not genuine enough to reach her eyes. She shuffles on the couch, propping herself up on her elbows and leaning her side against the cushion to sit. The action almost causes new bruises to her body.

When she looks back to him, he's gazing at her, expression pained. It makes the growing lump in her throat extend in strength.

She leans forward, close enough to see the freckles on his face throughout the darkness. "What happened tonight . . . " she begins, her voice strained. He needs to know she's willing to fight, needs to know if he is. "I know what might happen, I know they won't listen to our side of the story."

Bellamy nods, his jaw locking.

"But we have to try."

His gaze softens, eyebrows scrunching together, and she knows what he's thinking, what he's feeling. It's impossible, there hasn't been a single citizen in the Ark who has been freed from crimes such as the ones they committed, no matter the amount of witnesses or statements.

She reaches forward in the darkness, her hand finding his, and she soothes her fingers against the roughness. Think of your mother, think of Octavia.

"No matter what, we don't give up," she vows, "okay?"

Bellamy closes his palm around hers, squeezing her hand.

"Okay."

* * *

 

xi.

The sun is rising higher in the sky when Clarke wakes up again.

It's almost too revealing, the image of brightness and light too strong for her recovering vision, too beautiful to be seen by her murderous eyes. But then again, it might be the last beautiful thing she sees.

She blinks rapidly, scanning the room to see Bellamy gone from the last time she saw him, his body slumped against the side of the couch. She remembers his desperate looks and unconvincing tone from last night. Tries not to think of what that means.

Clarke stands up from the couch. Her head is spinning in contrast as she walks to where her mother remains on the chair, and she pushes her hair back, bending to kiss her on the forehead. She looks so gentle and restless, almost peaceful.

Clarke studies the cabin around her, her footsteps light on the wood beneath her as she walks towards the other end of Bellamy's home. Him and Octavia don't seem to be awake yet, which is odd due to the placement of the sun in the sky, it should be late morning by now.

Picture frames are plastered against the walls. The photos are black and white, consisting of a young Bellamy Blake, an older version of him (probably his father), and Octavia. The smiles look genuine and sincere. Beautiful.

Clarke turns her head when she hears a cough coming from the line of rooms on the one side of a wall. It sounds wet and hoarse, sick. She walks towards the door that is slightly ajar, her hands bracing the doorknob.

She tilts her head inside the room to see a sleeping figure on the bed. Aurora Blake.

"What are you doing?"

Clarke jumps at the sound of his voice, and she turns, her eyes locking with Bellamy's as he leans against the wall behind her. He appears cleaner than before, the stained blood now removed from his skin, and he looks at her with a hint of curiosity in his gaze.

She glances slightly behind her shoulder to where Aurora still rests. "I just wanted to see if there was something I could do to help," she tells him.

Bellamy shakes his head. "You know there's not."

Clarke sighs. She knows that, he knows that. She takes a step closer towards him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Where's Octavia?" she wonders. She can't imagine her not being here, not thinking of every possible way to save her brother.

There's a flicker of despair in his eyes when she says her name. "I told her to go to school today."

"Oh," Clarke says, confused. She watches as he walks past her towards his mother's room, reaching forward to pull her door closed. She takes that as an introduction. "I know we have a lot to talk about - "

Bellamy pauses. He turns to face her, his lips parting open and his eyes narrowing. He shakes his head. "Clarke . . . "

There's a vulnerableness to him that makes her feel weak. "What?" she asks. Maybe he's confused, or scared, or both. Maybe he's just worried about Octavia.

Bellamy doesn't respond, his eyes not breaking from hers, and she can feel her breathing quicken. There's a message in his gaze that he's speaking without words, and she doesn't want to listen, doesn't want to look at what he's saying. Because what he's saying isn't possible.

She's heard stories about the Blake family, how they protect each other fiercely, how they protect everyone fiercely. So he wouldn't do this.

He wouldn't turn himself in.

He can't. He promised her last night.

"No. No." Clarke walks towards him, pressing her finger accusingly at his chest. "You can't do that. You can't give up. Think about your mother, think about Octavia - "

His eyes harden. "That's what I'm doing."

Clarke scoffs. That's selfish. He's stupid and selfish. "There's as much blood on my hands as there is on yours," she pleads with him, trying to convince him. Don't be an idiot, Bellamy. God don't be a hero.

"I'm not going to let us both get killed, Clarke."

A surge of anger releases at his words, at his expression, the brokenness and sadness that swims in his eyes. He's serious, he's serious and she knows she's not going to be able to change his mind. To change his decision to try.

Clarke's glare hardens, and she slaps him.

Her palm is red and stinging, and there's tears in her eyes she isn't able to control. His jaw locks, and he turns back to her, a pink shadow already covering the surface of his skin. It's swollen, but she doesn't care. Neither does he.

Her voice is shaky and weak when she tries to be strong. "Coward."

He stares at her, his eyes shifting, and she doesn't bother to wipe at the wetness underneath her cheeks. She's angry, and pissed, but God he can't do this, he can't do this for her.

"Clarke."

Her mother's voice is desperate when Clarke hears it, but she doesn't turn to her, doesn't look away from Bellamy.

"We should leave," Abby suggests, her tone longing. Clarke sniffles, because she knows her mother must be aware of what he's planning to do, she must have always known.

But her feet don't move. And neither does her eyes. She tries one more time, one last attempt for him to fight back. "You don't have to do this," she whispers. It's all she can think of without breaking down.

"I do."

And she knows she can't do anything else. She knows he's not changing his mind.

Bellamy Blake is turning himself in.

Clarke swallows the large lump of emotions that has been gathering in her throat. She blinks the tears that are clouding her vision, looking at his brown depths a moment longer before turning her back on him. There's nothing for her here anymore.

She walks. Walks towards her mother, Abby's hands outstretched, walks towards the front door, walks away from him.

Clarke stops before she reaches the living room.

Her eyes study the couch she spent the night on, and she remembers the blood, remembers Bellamy saving her. She feels her heart pace fast and her cheeks flush.

I'm not going to let us both get killed, Clarke.

She releases a long breath, soothing, calming, and turns to face him. He's watching her with a blank expression, and she wants to slap him again, wants him to show that he's as scared as she is for him.

Clarke steps towards him, her face scrunching in sadness, and crashes herself against his body.

Her arms wrap tightly around his neck, her mouth open and pressing against his shoulder. He smells like strength and hope and fear all at the same time. His body is rigid, immobile as she feels him wince in her embrace.

She squeezes him. Feel something, God damn it.

And he does. His head falls against her hair as he returns the sentiment, his breath shallow. His arms are loose when they wound around her waist but his body is close, and that's enough for her.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers against his ear.

He nods. Doesn't say anything. She pulls away, her eyes shinning with tears, looking at his face one more time.

Bellamy Blake. She doesn't really know him. And he doesn't really know her. But she can't seem to let him go.

But she has to.

"May we meet again," she says, voice cracking.

Bellamy offers a small grin, a sad one, and she pretends not to notice the hesitance in his eyes. She breathes deeply before turning away from him again, ignoring her mother's calling of her name as she exits the Blake cabin, her body shaking when she walks down the porch steps.

* * *

 

xii.

Abby tries to convince her it's for the best.

The sun is beating heavy on their shoulders through their open window, and the heat that courses through Clarke's body is pure and strengthened at her words. She shakes her head, thinks of Aurora, thinks of Octavia.

"Don't, mom," she hisses, her tears of sadness has since been replaced with the feeling of anger, "this is not right. This shouldn't be happening."

Abby swallows thickly. "Clarke - "

"You convinced him to do this. Didn't you?"

Her mother doesn't say anything, and it makes the burning weakness within Clarke's stomach grow tighter. Her fingers curl around the kitchen chair she's leaning onto and she releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding. "That's sick," she gasps, tone trembling, "how could you?"

Abby's expression is distant. Her eyes shift away from her daughter, and she glances at the sun, at the brightness of the sky. She sighs heavily, and it angers Clarke more to see her unfazed by her actions.

The silence drags on, and Clarke shakes her head in disbelief.

She steps out of the kitchen, she can't be in the same room as her anymore. "Dad would have been so disappointed in you," she murmurs.

And then she leaves, entering her bedroom and slamming the door shut behind her, waiting for the horn to signal the beginning of Bellamy's execution.

* * *

 

xiii.

The sun has already set, and Clarke holds the pillow closer to her chest, familiar with the tradition of Ark hangings starting at dawn.

In a couple minutes, Bellamy will be dead, and it'll be because of her.

Octavia won't have a brother, because of her. Aurora won't have a son, because of her. Bellamy won't have a future, because of her.

And it feels like a similar cycle that the Ark seems to produce. Having people, everyone that the unprivileged citizens love and care for, suffer for whatever crime has been committed. Having them starve, then killed for stealing food. Having them raped, then execute them for fighting back.

She knows that if she were to come clean, to tell the council that she was apart of the murders of Dax and Connor, they wouldn't believe her. They wouldn't care. They would take Bellamy for his confession, they would believe him when he says he was responsible for both their deaths.

Dying and killing. Killing and dying. It's a cycle that the Ark won't break.

Clarke sighs. She crinkles her nose, wrinkles it, waiting for the smell of her mother's cooking to fill her senses. She's probably making her carrot soup, an unfair advantage to get Clarke to forgive her or to move past an argument every time they in one.

Clarke pauses when she doesn't smell anything.

She gets up from her bed, slipping on her shoes from the floor beneath her as she exits her room. The cabin is cool, lifeless, and Clarke scrunches her eyebrows together when her mother doesn't come into view, when she doesn't see her anywhere.

She rubs at the goosebumps forming down her arms. "Mom?" she calls. Once, twice, a third time.

Nothing.

She huffs, walking into the kitchen, searching for anything to explain her mother's absence. She checks the stove, still off. Checks the pile of rations, it's still all there. There's nothing missing. Nothing new.

Clarke feels a sudden chill down her spine when she turns to see a note resting on the kitchen table.

She walks to it, her steps hesitant and heavy, her breath cold. Her fingers are trembling when she slips the light piece of paper between her hands. It's a note, with her mother's handwriting, her mother's signature.

A note.

_Dear Clarke,_

_By the time you read this, darling, I'm afraid it'll be too late. There is much to discover in this world, and for this reason why I hope you know that whatever happens today, whatever decisions I make, I will not regret it. I will not regret it because it will be for you, and your freedom._

_I am very proud of the woman you have become. You remind me so much of your father, and I know he would have been proud of you, too. Remember to always think of what we taught you, and soon you'll realize why we taught you it. Soon you'll realize what all the lessons and teachings were for._

_A change is coming, Clarke. A change that I hope you are able to create and experience in your lifetime. It has been building for some time now, your father and I were both apart of it, and I hope you will become apart of it, as well._

_Don't trust the Ark, and trust the Grounders, follow them home, Clarke. But, most of all, trust yourself._

_I love you. Be good._

_Mom._

"No."

No, no, no.

Mom.

Clarke drops the notes from her hands, and it's hard to breathe, hard to think. She feels the flash of hopelessness strike her chest, feels her heart caving, and it's too much. Too many thoughts and aching to believe this is happening.

There's a breaking of sound as the horn blows, the piercing noise a shattering to her bones. This is what she's been planning. What she told Bellamy, what she told Clarke, it was all going according to how she wanted. Her mother wants to save them both.

Clarke drops the paper from her grasp and runs, faster than she can think she can, faster than she's ever ran before. Her feet are burning by the time she reaches the camp square.

By the time she see's her mother, standing on the stage, a noose around her neck.

"Mom!"

Abby's eyes lift from their focus on the ground, and Clarke can see the pained glaze in them even through the distance and darkness that they are separated by. She shakes her head, a warning, yearning her not to come any closer, not to look as they tighten the rope around her neck.

Clarke doesn't listen, she won't allow her to do this.

She rushes towards the crowd of people that surround the stage. Various pairs of eyes land on her as she pushes past them, soft murmurs, quit voices, whispering "that's her daughter, that's the one who was raped."

She feels an arm wrap around her wrist, pulling her back. "Clarke." There's a voice in her ear, and she turns to look behind her, see's Octavia's cautioning. "Stop."

Clarke rips herself from her grasp. No.

Her legs begin to weaken when a Guard positions Abby in the centre of the stage, on top of the box that will drop her to her death. Clarke feels her pulse slamming into the bruises and wounds that still cover her body. And she feels sick again. Dizzy.

Her voice is low when she strains her mother's name. "Mom . . . "

Strong arms wrap around her waist, pulling her from the front of the stage, and she thrashes, arms and legs kicking wildly as they pull her further into the crowd. The encounter catches the attention of the Guards standing nearby, but she doesn't care. They tried to kill her before.

"Clarke," the voice whispers, and Bellamy's husky tone is hot against her ear. "Clarke."

She shakes her head, her vision blurry with the impending amount of pressure that builds behind her eyes. She can't lose her, not her mom. Please don't make her lose her mom.

The Guard steps over the threshold, his fingers around the rope, and she feels Bellamy's hold tightening on her, expecting.

Clarke panics. She can't breathe. Her eyes lock with her mother's, her daring and bold gaze, the gaze that taught her how to talk, how to run, how to fight. Fighter's don't die like this. Hero's don't die like this.

There's a low murmur from the stage, and a nodding from Chancellor Jaha, and the Guard pulls on the rope, the stage opening beneath her mother.

"No!"

There's darkness, and the sound of cracking. Clarke struggles against Bellamy's hand that covers her eyes, struggles against his iron muscles that hold her shaking frame. She curses, sobs, removes his fingers from her vision.

And then she see's her. See's her mother limp in the air, her neck bent.

"Oh my God," she whispers. And then louder, powerful, lonelier. "No . . . "

Her father is dead.

Her mother is dead.

Clarke breaks. Her knees grow weak as she collapses, but Bellamy's arms catch her before she falls to the ground, before she falls by herself. She lowers herself onto the dirt, onto her knees, and bends her forehead against the soil.

Her father is dead.

Her mother is dead.

Bellamy holds her arms from behind, his stomach curving her back, and she can feel the whispers of comfort that he sends her. Telling her she's alright, that she's not alone.

Clarke's never felt so alone in her life.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Here's chapter two! Really appreciate the comments!! ENJOY :)

i.

Abby Griffin has been dead for five months.

Five months since the execution that left Clarke's mother hanging in a state of lifelessness. Five months of struggling, struggling with being polite with the privileged and the Guards, with creating enough medicine to last her until the next Trade.

Five months since she lost her mother. Five months since she became an orphan.

The cabin feels empty, lonelier. Cold and hopeless without the cheering smile of Abby Griffin, without the comfort and wise words she would tell Clarke in order to get through a day in the Ark.

The Ark. Still despicable. Still corruptive.

But the unprivileged society is beginning to fight back.

_"When you get older, you are going to learn that some things aren't how they should be, that things should be better."_

It's not better. It's different. And the Ark is different. There's been riots, small undiscovered crowds of the unprivileged that storm the streets, that tear down posters of Chancellor Jaha and paint words of rebellion on nearby stores.

Expectantly, with the increasing number of resilience against the Ark, there's also an increasing number of executions.

Fathers, mothers, siblings, and friends. Young and old. Healthy and ill. All of them, it doesn't matter, there's no limit on the amount of lives that the Ark has taken. No amount of hopelessness and grief that Chancellor Jaha has clouded the camp with.

But something is coming. Though Clarke doesn't know whether that something is good or bad.

She supposes it doesn't really matter. Nothing was ever good.

Clarke sighs. She reaches forward to scans her fingers across the piece of paper that lays in front of her. Her mother's note. The words have since been burned into her memory, the last words her mother has ever told her. Her final, last piece of advice.

And Clarke still can't figure it out.

_"Trust the Grounders, follow them home, Clarke."_

Grounders. She has no recollection of ever speaking of the term before. No memory of ever hearing of it. But she knows her mother, what she wanted, what her father would have wanted.

They want her to fight. Clarke just doesn't know if she can anymore.

She doesn't know _how_ she can.

The silence of the cabin breaks as the horn bristles through the air, reminding the Ark citizens of the Trade that will shortly begin. Clarke is still at the same booth, with the same people, with the same thieves and Guards surrounding the area. That's how it is.

It's a cool day in February, and Clarke glances over at the kitchen table. The pile of medicine that rests on the surface of the wood seems to get smaller and smaller each month. And so do her meals.

School has since ended, and that allowed Clarke the advantage to start her shifts at the medical bay. She's able to get the supplies she requires to make the medicine for the Trade, able to receive a couple additional packs of rations. It's still not much. But it's enough.

For now, living in the Ark, following the law, that's enough.

Enough for her to keep going. To keep living.

But she doesn't know how much longer she can last. Doesn't really care.

* * *

 

ii.

The camp square is swarming yet again with customers. There's the familiar sound of begging, of crying and screaming that Clarke has always been uncomfortable with but has grown to accept. The unprivileged are desperate human beings.

Desperate people make desperate attempts. And those desperate attempts usually get them killed.

Clarke breathes deeply, looks down at her table. She's only managed to sell seven bottles of medicine in the last couple of hours. That's equivalent to nine packs of rations, to three weeks of living.

Or survival. Or whatever.

That's what Clarke has come accustomed to, with the death of her mother. That's what she's come to learn. She'll never be able to live, to be happy, to make other people happy. There's no room for that in the Ark. In the Ark, hope makes you weak. And weakness gets you executed.

It also sure feels a hell of a lot like giving up. She never thought she'd come to this point.

Clarke licks her lips. She exhales, breathes, rubbing her fingers against her palms to remove herself from her state of mind. Her eyes flicker, pressuring against the building tears in her eyes, and she catches herself in a glare with the person at the booth across from her.

Bellamy Blake.

God damn Bellamy Blake.

His eyes are strong, persistent, the familiar intensity she's observed since the moment of the attack in the alleyway. His hair is curly and growing long since the last Trade, and that's the only time she see's him, when he's standing by Octavia, doing what he needs to do to survive.

Clarke looks away. She hasn't contacted him since the days following her mother's death. But he tried, and so did Octavia, they tried to help her, to give her extra rations and offer her support. They tried to make the pain go away.

But she refused. Because every time she looks at him, she see's the man in the alleyway. And every time she thinks of the alleyway, she thinks of how it got her mother killed.

And it starts over again. The pain that never ends.

She's seen him once since the tragedy that occurred five months ago, when he came into the medical bay. His arm was bleeding, deep, and she had to perform stitches on him that required about an hour of practical procedure.

An hour of silence. Silence and brooding. There were some things he said, although, some things she learned. She learned he is still working at the factory, that his sister has begun a job at the school, teaching Greek history.

She learned that his mother died.

But then again, she didn't exactly learn that. She heard of it, when it happened a couple weeks after her mother, heard the wailing that Octavia Blake echoed throughout the East end from their cabin. She heard, and she didn't do anything. Didn't say anything then.

She offered her condolences to him when he informed her, and he just shrugged, nodded even. His lips were bruised and he looked tired. He looked too good of a person for this world.

"Hey, Clarke."

Clarke turns to the sound of the voice, eyes widening at the person in front of her. "Graham," she says in acknowledgement.

He smirks his yellow grin. His hair is shaggy and red, dirty, and Clarke looks around, eyeing the Guards that pass by. They know of Graham's motives, of the amount of suspensions he received from the Trade. He's stolen, even from the most poor of the families, but it didn't matter.

He was a privileged. And that meant it was okay.

Graham fingers one of the medicine bottles on the table. It makes Clarke's nerves tense. "I just wanted to come by, see how you were doing with your mother and all."

"I'm fine."

"That's good," he slithers. He eyes the table, his gaze shifting between the medicine and Clarke. "That's good."

Clarke nods. Her mother was usually the person who could deal with the conflicts that arose during the Trade. And he knows that. He knows and that's why he was smart to never try and steal from them before. But now it's not them. Now it's just her. It's just Clarke.

Graham turns away from the booth before she even realizes the two medicine bottles missing from the table.

Fuck.

"Hey," she sneers. She steps away from the booth, her steps trailing behind him as he walks further into the centre of the camp square. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

He glances over his shoulder at her. "Piss off, Griffin."

Clarke reaches forward. She grasps his elbow with her fingers and turns him towards her, her hands tight on his skin. He rolls his eyes, smiles at the Guards that observe them, and it hasn't occurred to her until then that straying people have begun to notice their encounter.

Clarke doesn't care. She doesn't fucking care.

"I can't afford this Graham and you know it." She's pleading now. Desperate people make desperate attempts. "Give it back."

Graham sighs. He gently peels her fingers from his elbow, and places her hand back to her side. He looks at her, and those eyes of trouble are hidden behind his bangs, behind his status. He smiles, softly, sarcastically.

"Why don't you go cry to your fucking mommy?"

There's many options of how she can handle this situation. There's a few stray members of the Ark that has surrounded them now, engaged in the situation and clash of the statuses. She can walk away, easily forget about the medicine bottles and return to her booth without consequences. But she doesn't do that.

Clarke punches him.

Her fists clench, tightly wounded as they strike against the side of his face, against his right cheek. He gasps, his fingers pressing against the redness surfacing his skin as the medicine bottles drop to the ground from their spot in his coat pocket.

Clarke's eyes harden, and she raises her fist again.

"Clarke."

She feels hands on her shoulders, pushing her back, and she knows who it is before her eyes even reach his face.

Bellamy stands between her and Graham, his expression hard. He tightens his hold around the material of her jacket, and he shakes his head, eyes warning in his usual intensity.

"Stop," he demands.

Clarke removes his hands from her shoulders and narrows her eyes. "Get the hell out of my way, Bellamy," she growls.

"No."

His answer sends a shiver of rage down her spine, and she stares at him, the silhouette of the crowd and Graham in the background. His hard expression reflects hers, and she knows he's not giving up. He's not giving up on her.

Her shoulders slump as she sighs. She wants to cry, wants to scream out at the people watching them, yell at them to continue with their day, to not gawk. She's the exhibit of a tragic individual in the Ark, the poor girl who almost got raped, who lost her parents, who punched Graham.

The poor girl who lost her mind.

"Miss. Griffin."

The icy voice of Chancellor Jaha splits through the air. Her fists curl tighter, and she swallows thickly, throat burning in the hatred that surrounds her. His tone is menacing, and she doesn't want to look at him.

But then she watches as Bellamy's eyes shift from hers to glare at a figure behind her shoulder, and she follows his direction of vision, turning to face Jaha and the crowd that parts with him.

Jaha steps forward. His stance of pride is familiar and despicable as a rally of Guards stand nearby in a protective stance around him. "Miss. Griffin," he repeats, this time her name sounds more irritated on his tongue, "I, along with other witnesses, observed you getting in a physical fight with Mr. Graham."

Clarke nods. She won't deny it. "He stole two of my medicine bottles, sir." The title still burns her lips.

"I understand," Jaha answers. Bellamy's breath is hot against the back of her neck where he stands behind her. "Although I am afraid to announce that this act of violence will not be accepted. Starting now, you are suspended from the sequence of today until the next Trade. Please, if you could, pack up your booth and return to your cabin."

Clarke shakes her head in disbelief. "Chancellor - "

"Now."

Clarke blinks. The crowd that has been observing the scene has grown larger, and she see's the recognizable faces of the students she went to school with, the acknowledged expressions of her mother's past co-workers. All thinking the same thing. Always thinking the same thing.

The Griffin girl. The one who's lost her mind.

She hears the coughing of Graham as he stands from the ground, and she doesn't realize until then that her fist starts to cramp. She licks her lips, flexing her palm and turning towards the direction of her booth.

Bellamy is still looking down at her when she catches his gaze again, but this time the wall of armour is gone, and his eyes are softer, sympathetic. And she wonders if he's thinking the same thing, too.

The Griffin girl. The one who's lost her mind.

Clarke shakes her head at him, as if to answer her own question. She's not gone. She's not lost. She pushes past him and ignores the wavering stares as she walks through the crowd.

She bends down to pick up her two recovered medicine bottles, and then leaves the Trade, with a pile of rations much smaller than last time.

* * *

 

iii.

With a pile of rations much, _much_ smaller than last time.

Clarke sighs as she stares at the scatter of items in front of her. The Trade has since ended, and she's in her cabin, analyzing the amount of medicine bottles she has left and the amount of ration packs she received.

She'll have to skip four meals this time.

Clarke rubs at the soreness that has spread on the surface of her knuckles. There's a shallow cut that runs along her skin, and she traces her finger on it, remembering the satisfaction she felt when her fist connected with Graham's face.

And then that moment of satisfaction was interrupted when Jaha appeared. When he suspended her from the Trade. When he accustomed her to skipping four meals with her low amount of rations.

When he executed both of her parents.

Clarke screams. She screams and screams until her throat begins to burn with the sensation of grief and despair. She screams for her mother, and her father, and for the citizens of the Ark, and for the survivors of the war. For everyone.

Her hand slams against the table, and she presses her palm into the wood. She's not gone. She's not lost. She's not gone. She's not lost.

_Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in._

But she is scared. She's an orphan and she's alone and she's scared. She's God damn terrified.

Clarke curls her fingers against the surface of the table, and she bends her head, lowers her face and closes her eyes. She remembers Bellamy's words, during her mother's execution, remembers him telling her she's not alone.

There's a knock on the front door that echoes throughout the cabin, and Clarke pauses, her muscles tensing. She waits and listens, and there's a second knock, then a third.

Clarke reaches forward and grabs the pile of rations and medicine bottles and places them inside one of the kitchen counters. She wipes at the redness around her eyes, the tears threatening to spill, and walks over to the front door, pulling it open.

Chancellor Jaha stands in front of her, hands behind his back, two Guards at his side.

"Clarke Griffin," he nods in greeting. The sun is setting and the light cascades the darkness of his skin. "Sorry to bother you in this hour."

Clarke shakes her head. "That's alright, sir," she tells him. Her pulse is quickening and her heart is edging and she knows that he senses the disgust she is displaying towards him.

Jaha tilts his head. His eyes rake over her body, over her ragged jeans, the messiness of her hair. She hasn't exactly been maintaining her appearance since her mother's death, hasn't been maintaining her sanity.

"What you did today," he begins, "is not acceptable. I understand that you are grieving - " _Bullshit_ " - but I cannot allow this kind of behaviour, Clarke. You understand me?"

"Understood."

Jaha nods in satisfaction with her response. She glares at the uneasiness in his eyes, glares at the discomfort he feels being in the East end, with the starvation and death and suffering.

Yes, he must be oh so very disturbed.

"I'm glad we are able to come to an agreement," he says. His tone almost makes him sound genuine. He's good at pretending to care. "I hope you are able to respect these wishes, for I won't be as lenient next time."

Clarke nods. She knows what that means. That's a threat.

_Don't trust the Ark, and trust the Grounders, follow them home, Clarke._

She doesn't know what home is anymore.

* * *

 

iv.

The darkness of the night has covered the sky when Clarke continues to finish her rounds, checking each patient and their diagnosis, checking their needs and requests.

It's been a long day at the medical bay. There was a man who came in with a deep gash stretching across his face, and Clarke knows it didn't come from a bicycle accident he told her as an excuse. He was funny, and witty. She thinks his name was Jasper.

It's been a couple of days since the last Trade, since Jaha visited her and warned her of any further drastic behaviour, as if she had anything left to lose. As if she had any reason left to care.

Clarke is pressing a cloth against the forehead of a small girl, the ticking of a nearby clock a burden to her ears. There's only two other doctors in the building, and since no one has come in yet with a serious injury, Clarke is hoping to finish her shift by midnight.

Her stomach growls. She hasn't eaten in hours.

"My name is Charlotte," says the girl who Clarke is treating. She's young, about ten, and she smiles up at her from her position against the pile of pillows on her cot. Her eyes are red and tired.

"Hello, Charlotte," Clarke grins, and her lips stretch, because she doesn't remember the last time she smiled, "I'm Dr. Griffin."

Charlotte nods knowingly. She was brought in by her father a couple hours ago, puking and in pain, but the other professions aren't sure what it could be. Don't have the technology to be sure of the diagnosis.

Clarke thinks it's cancer. Stomach cancer, pancreatic cancer, she doesn't know. She'll have to stay at the medical bay for a couple of days to be cautious.

Charlotte shifts on the mattress. "I know who you are. I remember your mom. She helped me when I came in one time. Said she had a daughter named Clarke."

Clarke's grin falls, and she releases a low breath. She hasn't been used to the constant staring she's received since she began working at the medical bay, the constant whispering, old co-workers of her mothers saying, "that's Abby's daughter, the poor girl." The poor girl, poor Griffin girl.

Charlotte bites on her bottom lip, and she places her hand on top of Clarke's, stopping the soothing motion of the cloth as she rests her palm on her skin.

"It's okay. I don't have a mom either."

Clarke looks at her. Her eyes are bright and watery, but she smiles, nods at her, and Clarke returns the affection, squeezing her hand in hers.

Most of unprivileged have lost one of their parents, or in Clarke's situation, have lost both.

It's a couple minutes past midnight when Clarke leaves the medical bay. Her hands rub against her arms, fingers skimming the fabric of her jacket. It's a cool night, and there are Guards lining the perimeter, guns at their hips and glaring.

Clarke sighs. She turns the corner onto her street, the silhouette of homes distant in the background. The living room lamp is still on in her cabin, and it allows the front porch to illuminate in a low light.

Clarke stops in her tracks when she arrives at her porch, and her eyes narrow, noticing a dark figure sitting on the steps.

Bellamy Blake.

He's leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. His eyes are rimming with exhaustion when he looks up at her, and Clarke bites on her lip, because he's still the man who reminds her of grief. But then she remembers. She remembers she's not the only one who has lost both parents.

"Hey."

Clarke nods in greeting. She clutches at the material of her shirt, breathing deep. "Hey," she mumbles.

Bellamy lifts himself from her porch steps. He stands in front of her, and the light reflects against his face, exposing various cuts and bruises on his skin. Clarke stares at him, eyes wide when he crosses his arms over his chest.

"We need to talk."

* * *

 

v.

Clarke glares at him, her mouth open and agape as she shakes her head in disbelief.

"A rebel group? That's what the Grounders are?"

Bellamy Blake leans against her kitchen counter, his eyes intense and yearning. He nods, tapping his fingers absentmindedly across the surface of the wood, and she wants to shake him, wants to burst with questions and wonder in the unsatisfying answers he's giving her.

 _A rebel group_. A group of the unprivileged, of her people, of Bellamy and Octavia, using the frustration against the Ark into a weapon. A weapon that allows their rage to spark a riot, to tear down posters of Jaha and the council. To inspire others.

Clarke looks at the bruises that cover his face, and how he told her of the amount of practice they involve themselves with. The amount of fighting and skills they enhance in order to become stronger. Her eyes narrow, and she thinks of Jasper, thinks of the gash across his cheek.

"It's mostly those from the East end. About forty-six of us now," Bellamy tells her. "There used to be a lot more, but after your father was executed, people got scared and - "

Clarke's eyes widen. "My father was a leader?"

"Your mother, too."

She stares at him. Her chest rises quickly, and her breath falters, and suddenly she thinks of the times her father would teach her lessons, of how her mother never gave her a direct answer to why her father was killed.

Her mother, her mother who would promise her a new beginning. Who would speak of words and statements opposing the Ark, who sacrificed her life, not only for Clarke, but for all of them.

_A change is coming, Clarke. It has been building for some time now, your father and I were both apart of it, and I hope you will become apart of it as well._

_A rebellion_. The change is the rebellion. The riots in the streets are the rebellion. Her parents, Bellamy, are the rebellion.

Clarke returns her gaze to Bellamy, and he's looking at her, calculating her with that same intensity she's familiar with. She takes a step towards him, and her head feels heavy and her mind feels weak. _A rebellion._

Her voice is a broken whisper when she speaks. "Why didn't they tell me? Why didn't you tell me?"

Bellamy's eyes soften, and his shoulders sag at the desperation in her tone. He sighs, lowering his head, and she wonders how long he's known, how long he's been apart of it. She wonders how long he's known her parents.

"They knew how dangerous it was," he says, and he's looking away from her now, towards the kitchen table. "They didn't want to force it on you until you were ready. A couple days ago, at the Trade, I saw that you were."

Clarke gaps at him. This is what she's been wondering for months, what her mother's note meant, what her father's lessons taught her. This is it. It's the rebellion. They wanted her to join the rebellion, of course they did.

But she's not the same girl they raised. Not even close.

"This doesn't make sense," she murmurs. She steps to the side, standing beside him and leaning her hands against the counter. She bends her neck and closes her eyes. This doesn't make sense.

Bellamy's voice is close to her ear when he speaks. "A lot of us want things to change around here. I know you do. That's what were trying to accomplish."

"Well, getting both of my parents killed doesn't seem accomplished to me."

She hears Bellamy sigh, feels his breath along her skin. His hand wraps around her arm and turns her towards him, her body pressing against his. His frame is warm and tense and when she opens her eyes, she can see the reflection of her intensity in his own.

"Hey," he grunts. His face is close and determined, securing her. "Both of your parents sacrificed themselves, Clarke. Not just for you but for all of us. An uprising is coming, and they knew we would be able to win one day."

Clarke narrows her eyes. "And you see that day being soon?"

Bellamy drops his arm, releasing her from his grasp, but she doesn't move. Doesn't shift. She watches as he nods slowly, a confident and convinced nod that sends a moment of motivation throughout her body.

But then she remembers bodies of the innocent and the corpses of her parents and the death of hundreds of the unprivileged. She remembers her mothers note, her fathers lessons, and then remember how strong they were, how confident they were like Bellamy is.

So strong, and so confident, but they're dead. The Ark is more strong and more confident.

Clarke leans forward, and their gaze doesn't break when she shakes her head, a defeat in her character.

"I don't."

And then Bellamy sighs, and she can hear the voices in her head screaming in protest. Can hear the Griffin in her crying to accept the offer.

But she's not a Griffin anymore. She's Clarke.

That poor Griffin girl. She's gone.

* * *

 

vi.

Octavia shows up at the medical bay three days later.

"Seriously, Griffin?"

Clarke sighs, her fingers squeezing the cloth on Charlotte's pale forehead. She bites on her bottom lip, turning her head to see Octavia standing at the entrance, her arms crossed against her chest. Just like a Blake.

"I'm busy, Octavia," she tells her.

She should have seen this coming. She should have known that if Bellamy wasn't able to convince her, than his younger sister wouldn't leave her alone until she did. She wouldn't leave her alone until she agreed to join them and fight back.

But Clarke stopped fighting day her mother was hung.

She places the wet cloth on the table next to Charlotte's cot, gives her a small smile before she takes the few steps to stand in front of Octavia. Her eyes are glinted with passion and frustration, the same intensity her brother gives.

"I'd rather not do this right now, Octavia."

Octavia scoffs. She shakes her head as she leans forward. "No matter how much you stall and pretend and fake it the Ark isn't going to get better. The Ark is going to kill you, Clarke. It's going to kill all of us."

Clarke swallows thickly. "Octavia - "

"I can't believe you," she breathes. And her voice isn't angry now, it's disappointed. "A couple months ago you would have been the one approaching us. If you hate how things are then do something about it."

_Don't trust the Ark, and trust the Grounders, follow them home, Clarke._

_But, most of all, trust yourself._

Her mother forgot to mention why to trust herself, forgot to tell her how.

Clarke feels the quickening of her heart as she remembers the words from her mother's last note. The last words, they were her mother's last words, and her last words were telling Clarke to fight. Telling her to fight back.

Octavia watches the change in Clarke's expression, and she exhales deeply, preparing for the final statement she knows will break her.

"I thought you had fire, Griffin. Guess only your parents did."

And then she leaves, leaves Clarke with the burning feeling of guilt and grief and pity and -

Her father is dead.

Her mother is dead.

\- and anger.

Her father is dead.

Her mother is dead.

That night, after her shift ends, she walks to their house, her hands clenched in fists and her eyes scolding with adrenaline. She knocks on the door, and when Bellamy answers, his jaw set and his muscles tense under his shirt, he nods at her. Because he knows. He knew she would come around.

"I'm in."

That Griffin girl. She's not gone.

* * *

 

vii.

Bellamy's in front of her, his body leaning against the door frame of his kitchen as she stands across from him.

Her eyes scan the layout of his cabin, searching. "You said forty-six people. Where are they?"

Bellamy shrugs, his shoulders slumping along the wood. She remembers the last time she was here, with her body trembling with panic, and her eyes filling with fear as he told her his plan to turn himself in. To get himself executed.

But her mother beat him to it.

Death and pain, the endless cycle of the Ark. So she'd rather die trying to stop it then die being afraid.

"All across the East end. We have a lot of people trying to get the word out," he tells her. He leans his head against the doorframe as he looks down at her. "We want to plan another riot soon."

Clarke bites on her bottom lip. "What would it be this time? Burn all the propaganda posters?"

"No. Burn the execution stand."

Clarke gapes at him. She steps forward towards him, and he lifts his head, gaze locking as she nears him. "Burn the execution stand?" she questions, "there's too many Guards in the camp square. They'll kill us all."

Bellamy shakes his head slowly. "Haven't done so yet. And besides, they can't. All of East end is working class." His eyes burn into hers reassuringly, and she feels her body relax, feels the tension leave her muscles. "They need us," he adds.

 _They need us._ The Ark needs their pain and their suffering, needs their struggle to survive and jobs in order for the system to work. The system of inequality and the unfairness of products and goods. They're protected by the injustice that inspires them to fight.

Clarke exhales deeply as she rolls her shoulders. "Burn the execution stand? That's what's next?"

"Yeah."

Clarke nods. Her eyebrows knit together as she studies the ground below her. This is the rebellion. This is what they do. This is what her father and mother did, what Bellamy did, what she'll do. They start a movement, make a difference.

Make a difference. They risk their lives to make a difference.

Her parents did, and now so will she. This is what she wants to do, what she needs to do. Make a difference.

When Clarke looks up at him again, the adrenaline in his eyes reflects her own. "Okay," she whispers, and then she grins, because this is crazy. They're crazy. But then he grins too and she thinks it's okay to feel like this, to be like this.

It's okay to want change.

Octavia walks down the stairs then, and she enters the kitchen with a shine in her eyes. She acknowledges Clarke with a smile, a wide smile that expresses her persistence.

"Griffin," she breathes, and strands of her hair are parted in multiple braids, "I figured you'd show up sometime."

Clarke shrugs. She steps away from Bellamy, her arms crossing over her chest as she looks at the woman in front of her. She's starting to predict her behaviour now. Octavia Blake - mean before being nice.

Octavia grins graciously at her and turns to Bellamy. "It's time to go."

He nods, and when Clarke looks at him again, the adrenaline in his eyes enhance.

"Ready to explore the underworld?"

* * *

 

viii.

The darkness of the night is surrounding them when they approach an alleyway a couple streets from their cabin. It's hard to see her, and the brick walls feel close to her frame as she follows Bellamy and Octavia in the direction they're leading her to.

Clarke swallows thickly. She remembers what happened the last time she was in an alley.

And Bellamy seems to remember too, because he turns to her, his eyes adjusting to her in the night. He offers a reassuring nod, and she returns it, because he knows what he's doing, Clarke. He knows what he's doing.

Octavia stops ahead of them, in front of a dumpster, and Clarke watches as she pushes the object to the side. Her breathing is heavy when she returns, bending down, gripping her hands forward. And that's when Clarke sees it. That's what when she see's the door trap in the ground.

Octavia looks up at them when she rusts it open. "Come on."

She jumps into the opening, and there's a small sound of her feet hitting the cement as she lands. Clarke shakes her head. A door trap. In the ground. In the Ark. Clever.

"What are you waiting for?"

Clarke breathes deeply when she see's Bellamy in front of her, squatting at the entrance. He wasn't kidding when he said he would show her the underworld. She walks towards him, and he nods at her before hurdling himself into the blackness of the opening.

Clarke follows, and she slightly stumbles when she feels the new ground beneath her feet.

She hears Bellamy exhale as he steadies her, his hands gripping her shoulders to prevent her from swaying. It's dark around them, and he squeezes the material of her shirt before releasing her. She looks up at him, eyes yielding.

"It's over here," he whispers. He turns from her then, walking down the hallway of the bunker. He guides her down a staircase, and she can see the brightness growing as they gain closer.

They eventually approach a large room, the light coming from battery lamps and torches of fire. There's words that line the walls, words of rebellion and their commitment to equality of all citizens. Equality amongst the privileged and unprivileged.

Clarke stares in awe at the people that occupy the room. There's a group of them training in a squared off section on the opposite side, their arms flexing as they face their own opponent in a physical competition. Others scatter amongst the bunker, participating in any activity available.

Bellamy leans closer to her. "We call it the Pit."

Clarke shakes her head in astonishment. She wonders of the memories her parents have carved into the walls, into the process of building the rebellion. She wonders how they started, how they continued, how they strayed Clarke from their lifestyle for eighteen years.

She wonders if she'll be enough to maintain her parents' reputation.

Bellamy touches her elbow, and she looks up at him, regarding the firmness in his expression. He jerks his chin towards a group of four people standing at a table, their heads bent as Octavia watches them work. She follows Bellamy as they approach them, eyes constantly discovering another interest in the bunker.

"Guys," Bellamy says as they reach them, "this is Clarke. She'll be joining us."

A girl with brown eyes smiles. "About time we get another chick around here. I'm Raven."

Clarke nods at her, notices the cuts that run along her bare arms. It seems as if Clarke wasn't the only one receiving fighting lessons from her father. Her eyes scan over the next two boys as they introduce themselves, Finn and Monty, her gaze landing on the final person to the side.

"Jasper," she remembers.

Jasper. The Jasper who came in to the medical bay a couple days ago with a deep gash forming on his face. The Jasper who told her it was a bicycle accident.

He smiles awkwardly, his cheeks reddening. "Hey, Clarke."

"Ignore him, he's only apart of this team because we're desperate," Finn teases. He pats Jasper's arm jokingly as Raven, Monty and Octavia snicker in the background. "We've got physicality on us too, but, mostly, we're the ones who build the weapons."

Clarke shakes her head. "Weapons?"

"Yeah." Finn gestures towards the pieces of scrap material that lay on the surface of the table. "Guns."

Guns. Her eyes shift amongst the forming bullets, amongst the outline of pistols on the wood. She knits her eyebrows together in confusion. "How did you - "

Raven interrupts her before she can finish the question. "If you look in the right places, you can trade for a lot more than rations." She picks up a crumpling of metal from the table. A bullet. "Bullets aren't easy to make. We save them for when we have to use them, and for practice."

Clarke nods. It seems as though the rebellion has been growing with people and equipment, has been developing despite the loss of her mother and father. She exhales deeply. Maybe they have a chance.

Monty crosses his arms shyly over his chest. His eyes are unwilling when they meet hers. "You're Jake's daughter, yeah?"

Clarke swallows thickly. "Yeah."

Monty offers her a sad smile. It settles an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach, knowing that these people, these strangers, potentially knew more about her father than she did. Spent more time with him than she did. Had more in common with him than she did.

He's been dead for years, and yet the reputation of his soul has been constantly following her. Constantly reminding her of the good and the bad.

"He was a good guy," Monty tells her when he notices her distressing posture.

Jasper nods his head in agreement. "So was your mom."

Clarke's grin is small when she stretches her lips. The rumours that surrounded her family following her father's death was a factor she was taught to ignore, was taught to believe in the lies that her mother told her. Her father died for what was right, and her mother died for what was right, and so will she, if it comes to that.

She glances at Octavia, her eyes softening with a knowing look. She gestures her chin towards a wall of colour and paint, and Clarke turns, walking towards it. Her eyes search the writings and her hand presses against the wall, against the same concrete that her parents once touched. Her eyes widen when she finally notices their names in the middle.

Abby Griffin and Jake Griffin. A line crosses along both their names. Dead.

She glides her fingertips across the carving. A feeling of satisfaction rises inside her, because this is who they would want her to be, they would want her to be good. They would want her to be one of the good guys. One of the good guys who fought and stood up for those who couldn't.

And she will. She'll fight, not only for the unprivileged, but for her parents, for herself, the Griffin girl.

She's not lost. She's not gone.

There's a shift in her breath when someone stands next to her, and she doesn't have to look to notice his presence. To notice who that presence belongs to. Her palm rests against her parents names plastered on the wall, her fingers rubbing along the line between them.

"Your turn."

Clarke turns her head, her eyes finding Bellamy's as he secures her in a steady gaze. He extends his hand towards her, and when she looks down she sees a carving utensil in his palm.

She exhales deeply, her skin brushing against his when she takes it from his grasp. It feels heavy between her fingers.

It's heavy and cold but it doesn't matter. She presses the tip of the sharp knife against the wall, and carves, carves and thinks of her mother and father, of the legacy they left her. An entire world she didn't know about until recently. When she finishes, she stares at the new addition to the wall, Clarke Griffin, the name directly beneath her parent's.

Bellamy grin is small when she turns back to him, and suddenly the carving utensil doesn't feel so heavy and cold anymore.

"Welcome to the rebellion."

* * *

 

ix.

 _Rebellion_.

A word with one meaning, yet with various ways to approach it. With various ways to succeed in it, to fail in it, to save or lose lives. Rebellion. A chance to make a difference, a chance to make a change. It all starts with one word.

Clarke sits on the wooden stool that rests on a side of the bunker, observing the scene of training and skill improving in front of her. She watches as Bellamy fixes Jasper's posture as he holds a gun, his curly hair falling over his forehead as he reforms Jasper's stance.

They're nice. Strong. The people here. It's been a few days since she was first introduced to them, first introduced to the unknown world hiding inside the Pit. When she returned home the first night, her mind reeling from the discovery, it was difficult to continue in her daily routines. Was hard to focus on anything but the hope that swells inside her chest.

Rebellion.

"It takes a while to get used to."

Clarke turns her head at the sound of the additional voice, her eyes meeting Raven's wide ones. Her hair is pulled into a tight ponytail as usual, brown strands falling around the frame of her face.

"Crazy, huh?" she continues, and there's a sense of pride in her tone. "To think this might work. We've come a long way."

Clarke nods. "What made you join?"

Raven sighs. Her eyes trail along an individual standing beside Octavia and another Grounder, Lincoln. Clarke follows her gaze, noticing the man who is glancing back at Raven, smiling, his hair scruffy and blonde. Clarke remembers his name is Wick.

"My parents were in the factory when it caught on fire a couple years ago," she explains, her eyes still fixated on Wick, "Turns out it occurred because there was machinery that was out of practice. Jaha knew. The bastard could have fixed it . . . but he didn't."

Clarke remembers. She remembers the amount of people who lost their lives, the people who lost their spouse, their children, their mother or father. Raven lost both. Lost everything. She swallows thickly, there's a lot more orphans in the East end than Clarke would like to think about.

Raven crosses her arms across her chest. Tough. "I was pretty young. Pretty scared. But that's when Wick found me and told me about the rebellion. And I met Bellamy. Met your parents."

She turns to Clarke then, and her eyes are round and passionate. Clarke knows this is more than a chance for change to Raven, this is more than eventual peace. This is revenge. Clarke senses it too. Allows it to motivate her.

"When we burned down those posters, we didn't want to do it for the violence. We wanted to do it for the hope. To inspire people."

Clarke nods. She gets it. She gets the risks they're willing to take in order to restore equality. In order to avenge those who they've lost.

Raven lowers her voice then, sympathetic. "What happened to your mom, that's what we do," she tells her. "That's what Grounders do. Sacrifice themselves."

Sacrifice. She thinks of her mother, of the rope that wounded tightly around her neck. Thinks of Bellamy, when he was preparing to turn himself in. When he was preparing to sacrifice his life for her freedom. Sacrifice. Yeah, she's sensed that a typical Grounder quality.

"That's what Bellamy was going to do," Clarke mumbles. Her eyes find him again in the crowd, and she doesn't remember the last time she allowed herself to look at him without thinking of her mother. Doesn't remember the last time she was able to push the thoughts away.

Raven chuckles. "That's not Grounder. That's just Bellamy. Your dad saw a lot in him, probably the reason why he trusted Bellamy to lead us if anything happened to your father."

Clarke bites on her bottom lip, watches Bellamy as he continues to assist others in handling their weapons. She remembers the conversation they had the morning after the incident in the alley. Remembers his voice and his expression. I'm not going to let us both get killed, Clarke.

No, he wouldn't. And it hurts, knowing the lengths he would go for his people. It hurts knowing the lengths he would go for her.

Clarke swallows thickly. "He saved my life," she whispers. She hasn't thanked him enough times. Never will be able to.

There's a guilt that rises inside her when she thinks of the months she spent not being able to look at him. The months she spent trying to avoid him and his damn expression of sympathy. But she has to let go. She has to realize.

Her and Bellamy aren't the reason her mother is dead. The Ark is the reason.

Clarke clenches her fists, and thinks of the word again. Rebellion. Her mother is dead. Her father is dead. Rebellion. Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in. And she won't. She'll fight. She'll become a Grounder.

"He saved all of our lives," Raven echoes.

And when Clarke looks towards the gathering of people again, his eyes have already found hers, and she hopes he notices the words she's trying to reflect through her eyes.

_I'm sorry, Bellamy. Thank you._

He nods at her, and maybe he'll allow her to bear some of the guilt too. Maybe they can bear the guilt together.

* * *

 

x.

Two days later, she holds her mother's gun in her hands, eyeing the target ahead of her.

The metal is cool against her skin, and she grips it tighter with the recognition that her mother once touched it, once pulled the trigger. Her fingers trace the weapon, eyes focused on the large X displayed on the red sheet hanging from the poll.

She breaths deeply. In. Out. Thinks of those who have suffered from the undoings of the Ark, and those who have suffered from the outcome of Jaha's leadership. Thinks of the woman who once held this gun. Thinks of the man who once taught her upper hooks.

And pulls the trigger.

The bullet enters through one of the sheet's corners, ripping through the fabric with a scaling sound. It's a long shot. A bad shot. But it felt good.

Clarke sighs, lowering her arms. She glances at Bellamy, who stands behind her, his gaze shifting from the red sheet to her own glare. He shakes his head and steps forward, ignoring the exaggerated groan from Octavia who observes on the side.

"Clarke," he breathes, and his voice is low against her neck. They've been here for hours. "Raise your arms higher."

He demonstrates, reaching forward and gripping her elbows. She swallows thickly because it's suddenly hard to swallow, and he positions himself behind her, her back settling against his chest.

"Why is that important?" she asks him as he raises her arms to his own satisfaction.

She feels him shrug around her. "Structure," he explains. "Don't present yourself with anger, it'll destroy you."

Clarke rolls her eyes, and he visibly makes his point as he releases her arms from his grip, resting them on her shoulders. They're harsh and rigid, and he presses down on them, breaking the tension that builds there.

She rolls her shoulders back, exhaling sharply. "I can handle it."

He chuckles. A low and quiet rumble in his chest. It's different, seeing him when he isn't completely surrounded with worry and danger, when he isn't trying to protect everyone. It's different, because she can finally look at him now, can finally accept his presence without thinking of _her_.

But her father trusted him. And he did save his life. She doesn't know how she could ever regret it.

But she was grieving, and grief is a funny thing.

"Just breathe," he tells her. And it occurs to her that her chest has been throbbing with the impulsion to release a breath. His hands drop from her shoulders, and he steps away from her, allowing her to focus. She settles her gun on the target and breathes deeply. In. Out.

When she releases the trigger, it's only inches away from the X.

Clarke smiles, a real smile, and drops her hands to the side. She turns to see Bellamy looking at her with a hint of amusement in his eyes. Octavia shouts a praise somewhere in the background and he grins, nodding in agreement.

Clarke raises her eyebrows at him. "So?"

Octavia walks towards them, skipping in her step. "Looks like you're a Griffin, after all," she smirks. Her voice holds the same impressive tone as Bellamy's expression.

But, of course, he'll never admit that, so he only regards her with a small nod. "Hopefully it won't take you another five hours next time," he teases.

Clarke rolls her eyes because he's right. Everyone else left after her fifth try, and it's been the three of them, waiting, always waiting, for her to get a decent shot. She doesn't remember the last time someone stayed with her until she succeeded in something, or the last time someone stayed with her at all. But then she looks at Bellamy and Octavia again, see's them looking back, and it almost feels normal.

* * *

 

xi.

Clarke awakes that night to the impending darkness of the room.

She stirs, her fists rubbing against her eyes as the moonlight struggles to shine through the curtains. Her body is still aching from her previous lessons when she lifts her body from the mattress and she rests herself on her elbows, glancing at the sleeping figure beside her.

Octavia.

Clarke sighs. It's an odd feeling, the feeling she gets when she allows herself to accept others into her life. When she allows herself to care for other people. Octavia is a good person, a good friend, and it's odd. She's been alone for so long.

She's been unfixable for so long.

Clarke slides her legs over the bed, her footsteps queit amongst the wood as she exits the bedroom. It wasn't planned, sleeping at the Blake cabin, but they were all exhausted when they returned from the Pit that it seemed like the only rational thing to do. It seemed normal.

But she can't sleep, hasn't been able to in a while, so she goes to the only place she knows will help ease her mind.

The place where she used to sit with her parents, watching the sun rise and lower in the summer days that kept them entertained. The porch. It's as simple as a porch. But when Clarke slips on her shoes and walks outside, Bellamy is already there, sitting on the steps.

She almost turns back. Almost wants to run home. But she doesn't. Instead, she takes the remaining distance between them in a few strides, and lowers herself beside him on the porch steps.

She receives another odd feeling when she settles beside him, when their knees touch, but she can't quite find the name for it.

Bellamy turns his head to glance at her. "Couldn't sleep?" he asks, and his voice is husky and his eyes are soft.

"Never can."

He nods, a simple and curt gesture. He looks at her for another moment before returning his eyes to the sky above them, to the cloudless night. She curls her fingers around her elbows, tries to count the freckles on his cheek.

He sighs deeply, his chest rising with his breath. "Seems like there's a lot of that going around."

Clarke doesn't say anything, and he doesn't ask her to. It's silent, and peaceful, and she's suddenly reminded of the last time she woke up in his cabin, screaming and thrashing. Remembers him comforting her until she came from the fear.

And there was that fear to him itself. A fear of the unknown while she forced him to promise her, forced him to promise that he would try to convince the council of their innocence. A fear that they both shared.

It seems as if they can't stop hiding from each other's demons.

"Bellamy," she whispers. She directs her face towards the sky, reflecting his position. "Did you know what she was going to do?"

She doesn't need to elaborate. They both know what she's speaking of, know the night in which changed their lives and entangled their lives into a mess in which they couldn't escape from. A night that brought on the continuous nightmares and sleepless nights.

"No."

Clarke turns to find him looking at her, his expression heavy. There's been so many questions and unanswered responses between them, so much guilt and unwanted emotions. But it'll never change. He'll always be the boy who saved her life. And she'll always be the girl who almost took his.

"We talked all night," he continues, "she told me she couldn't leave you. I offered to do it anyways."

Clarke shakes her head. "Why?"

He lowers his gaze, but her eyes can't seem to stray from his face. He looks so vulnerable, so much like in the moment he told her he was turning himself in. And she wants this. She wants to share the guilt. Bear it together.

"Something I learned to do," he mumbles. He still won't look at her. "To protect people."

 _That's not Grounder. That's just Bellamy._ Raven's words are a reminder, and Clarke suddenly feels as vulnerable as he looks.

"To protect me."

Bellamy lifts his head then, settles her gaze on her. There's a yearning in his eyes that she wants him to speak on, wants him to feel and act on. But he's guarded. There's more demons inside him than he will ever allow himself to show her.

Clarke scrunches her eyebrows. "You didn't have to. We barely knew each other."

Bellamy shakes his head. His hair curls around his forehead, shagging, and when he turns back to her, there's a newfound passion in his eyes.

"We don't get to control a lot of things, Clarke," he whispers, because he needs her to understand. "But we do get to control who and what we choose to live for. We get to control who and what we choose to die for. And I'm not allowing them to take that from me."

The words rise a swelling inside her chest. A swelling that reminds her of the person who was able to teach her lessons on an emotional and physical aspect. Who had soul and passion, who shared Bellamy's vow to humanity.

Her eyes are burning with unshed tears when she speaks again. "You sound like my dad."

Bellamy releases a breath of laughter, without humour. "I guess so, huh?" he murmurs.

Clarke laughs. A sound she hasn't heard in months. His chuckle follows, a thumping in his chest, their entangled tones echoing throughout the night. She wipes at the lonely tear that slides down her cheek. Sitting here, with Bellamy, it doesn't hurt to cry.

It doesn't hurt to cry and it doesn't hurt to think.

Moments later, when their laughter fades, she bumps his elbow with hers. "I'm sorry. For avoiding you," she tells him. She doesn't elaborate, but he knows what she's speaking of. She couldn't even look at him the months following her mother's execution.

He shrugs. "You're here now."

Clarke nods, the wetness beneath her eyes removing from her cheeks. She grins at him, and he returns it, and suddenly she forgets what it feels like to be anxious, because she's never met anyone who's made her feel so secure. Who made her feel so hopeful without even saying the words.

"Yeah," she whispers. I'm here.

And then she turns her face towards the sky, watches the moon hanging from the night with Bellamy beside her, and it feels good not to be scared for a while.

* * *

 

xii.

Clarke stands beside the counter top in the medical bay, Charlotte bright and eager in front of her.

It's early in the morning, the sun a low rise amongst the clouds. Her shifts have been doubling at the medical bay since she doesn't have enough time to make medicine bottles to sell at the trade. But it's hard to count on a job for rations. Hard to count on anything.

Charlotte leans forward on the surface. The young girl has been staying overnight since Clarke first suggested it to her father a couple weeks ago. Her skin is still pale, her hair still falling loose around her face, but she still maintains the appearance of a child. Of the sick youth.

Clarke sighs. Whatever illness she has, she can't fix it.

"My dad said he's going to make me carrot soup tonight," Charlotte declares.

Clarke smiles. She takes a step towards her, her hands on her thin shoulders. She removes the wires and tubes that link to her body, discarding her of any trace left of the medical bay.

She tries to mask the sadness in her voice. "Of course. He's excited to have you back."

Charlotte's grin widens as she nods. She's been up all night, puking up a substance Clarke isn't sure of, yet the adrenaline that she expresses continues to increase. It takes everything inside Clarke not to sympathize. But Charlotte almost makes it impossible. She's the happiest child she knows.

"Nice scrubs."

Clarke turns to the additional voice in the room, eyes widening when she see's Bellamy at the entrance, leaning against the doorframe. He pushes himself off the wall and walks over to them, his arms crossed against his chest.

His gaze are teasing as Clarke rolls her eyes. "Hey," she replies.

Bellamy smirks. She can still see the scar that forms across his cheek from a training incident with Lincoln, although it's faded and unclear on his skin. She wonders how many more wounds he has on his body.

He stands beside her, turning from her to analyze the small girl in front of them. "Who's this?" he wonders.

Charlotte jerks her chin forward. "I'm Charlotte. Who are you?"

"Bellamy."

She crosses her arms over her chest, smiling cheekily. "Well guess what, Bellamy?"

He grins, entertained by the overpowering energy that releases from her small frame. He glances sideways at Clarke and raises a questioning eyebrow, but she only shakes her head, returning the grin.

"What?" He plays along.

Charlotte shows him the band hanging from her small wrist. The band that displays her discharge. "I get to go home today," she tells him.

Bellamy chuckles and mumbles a small congratulations, but she can still distinguish the heartache in his voice. He hides it well, emotionally and physically, because he raises his hands towards her, and she slaps her own against it.

Charlotte giggles, and he gives her one last look before turning back to Clarke. "You done soon?" he asks. She almost lies, tells him not for another couple of hours so she has time for her body to heal. Her muscles still ache under her clothes.

Despite it, she nods at him. "I'll be there in an hour," she informs him.

Bellamy lowers his head in acknowledgement. He glances at Charlotte, her lips still stretching in a smile, and touches her shoulder. "See you later, kid," he bids. His fingers grasp the material of her gown a moment longer, before he grins at her and Clarke, and exits through the doorway.

Clarke sighs. This must be important.

She turns back to Charlotte to see her smile has widened in awe. "He's cool," she mumbles.

Clarke steps towards her as she continues to remove the tubes from her body. "You think so?" she questions, her voice teasing. It's only assumed Bellamy would be good with kids, considering his relationship with Octavia.

"Yeah. Is he your boyfriend?"

Clarke stops. She swallows thickly, shaking her head. "He isn't."

Charlotte shrugs. "Okay. Well I think I like him," she tells her.

Clarke smiles. She pats the material that runs along her shoulders, having removed all of the wires that connect her to the low quality monitors. She's going home. She's going home because she should be comfortable when it happens. When she passes.

"Well I know he likes you," she says, and Charlotte smiles again, and she wonders how she can smile so much as an unprivileged, sick girl living in the Ark.

Later that night, Bellamy encourages her in the training centre until her bones ache and break. When they finish, he grabs her elbow, her forehead wet with the release of the exercise, and brings her towards the centre of the Pit.

He informs the crowd before them of their plan to burn down the execution stand in the following weeks. He informs them of their commitment to their society, of their devotion to peace and equality. Of their promise to honour those who lost their lives in this deep war.

"We need the people. As soon as we have their support, then we start fighting back. Start making deals with the council."

The crowd cheers in response, and she was right, this is important, this is the change. She looks at Bellamy, and he looks at her, and they both nod at each other, because this is the change. This is the rebellion.

* * *

 

xiii.

It's almost midnight when they leave the Pit.

The sky is cloudless and the air is cool, with the guards lining the perimeter of the camp that leads to his cabin. Her hands rub instinctively along the skin of her arms as she shivers. A shiver that relates to the wind and the feeling of revolution that slowly approaches them.

There's a silence that surrounds Clarke and Bellamy as they walk along the pathway. Her muscles continue to burn and stretch through her body, and she thinks of how it felt when Bellamy's arms held her wrists, the same way her father would. But it felt yet entirely different.

After his announcement to the fellow members of the rebellion, Octavia offered to stay with Lincoln and assist those who needed and wanted the practice. Either Bellamy doesn't see it, or he doesn't want to, but the relationship between Octavia and Lincoln is there. Is growing. It's nice to see.

Clarke stands by the Blake porch when they arrive to his cabin, and he turns to her, his hair scruffy and his eyes dark in the night.

"You sure you don't want me to walk you home?"

She shakes her head. "Yeah," she whispers. "I'll be fine."

He nods, grins a little, and she returns it before curving away from him. She tucks her hair behind her ears, crossing her arms over her chest, and waits for the sound of his footsteps along the porch and the opening of his door. But she doesn't hear anything.

"Clarke?"

She stops in her tracks. Turns her body to him. "Yeah?"

Bellamy leans against the railing of his porch. He rests his elbows on the wood, and his expression is sincere, so genuine. She takes a couple steps towards him without realizing, her eyes meeting his.

There's that passion again in his eyes. That reflection of intensity and hope and wonder and God there's so many emotions in his eyes that she would never able to find or name or understand.

There's that odd feeling in her stomach again. But she doesn't want to think about that.

"When my father died," he begins, his tone rough, "for a while, it didn't seem like I belonged anywhere, like I didn't have a home. Or people." He leans forward, towards her. "But I do. You do. You know that, right?"

Clarke swallows thickly, because that feeling is climbing up her throat. "I'm trying to," she whispers.

"You'll get there," Bellamy vows. His voice is smooth now, almost healing. "You are a Griffin, after all."

Clarke grins. She wonders if he can see it in the darkness, but she supposes he can because he smiles too. It seems as if her parents are the heroes she always imagined them as. Heroes not only to her, but to the rebellion. To the Ark.

"That's a name to live up to, I guess," she declares.

Bellamy shrugs, his eyes bright. "You're managing."

She smiles gratefully at him, her gaze lingering on the mixture of emotions that sweep at the edge of his eyes. Bellamy Blake. There's so much to discover about this man, so much to learn and so much to learn from.

Bellamy Blake. The only thing that scares her is that odd feeling she has, the one she doesn't like to think about. Whatever it is, it has something to do with those damn eyes.

His expression is encouraging when he looks at her again, and maybe he's right, maybe she'll be alright. Maybe she's not alone after all.

Her mother is dead.

Her father is dead.

But the Griffin girl. She's not gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three should be up by Monday night or Tuesday morning. Also, I'm thinking of writing a sequel this story after the first four chapters, so if I receive comments and kudos it really does motivate me to keep writing this piece hehe. Please let me know if you're interested by continuing to show your awesome support. Thanks again :)


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I hope you enjoy the first part of chapter three! I'm posting only the first part now because I just got assigned many assignments and I want you guys to read something while it took me a few extra days to finish the complete chapter! So enjoy :) Second part of the chapter should be up this week.

i.

Wells Jaha visits the medical bay on a Tuesday.

The room isn't busy, most of the patients asleep or doodling on the notepads they provide as entertainment. It's hard to avoid him, hard to pretend she doesn't see his figure, but he stops in front of her, his eyes yielding.

Clarke nods at him, not looking up from the clipboard in her hand. "Wells," her tone is cold.

He digs his hands in his front pockets, shifting on his feet. He's nervous, of course he is, it's dangerous for him to be in the East end, especially with the riots and rising rebellion. The rebellion she is apart of. The rebellion that will compromise his father.

But yet he stays. Attempting to be bold. "How are things?" he asks.

That's brave of him to ask, considering his father executed her parents. Considering she hasn't spoken to him in months, and he hasn't tried to contact her, much to her relief. Sometimes she forgets that we they once had, whatever it was, even existed at all.

"I'm fine," she tells him.

Wells nods. "Listen," he begins, and her stomach clenches, because the speech already sounds too familiar, the endless amount of apologies she doesn't want to hear. "I'm sorry about your parents. I don't agree with a lot. But - I just need to talk to you."

Clarke sighs. His voice is strained and desperate, genuine. But it doesn't matter. He doesn't matter. She doesn't look up from her clipboard when she speaks.

"There's nothing to say."

He doesn't say anything for a while, and Clarke desperately hopes he takes her silence as a reason to leave. To exit the medical bay and never come back. To return to his pleasures and life full of advantages. To return to his father, his father, with more blood on his hands than life itself.

"I hear you're hanging with the Blake siblings a lot," he whispers eventually. Clarke's eyes look up from her clipboard, stares at him, finally acknowledging his presence. His eyes are guarded and fierce. "You shouldn't be. They're dangerous."

Clarke almost laughs. "You can't be serious."

A changing of emotion shifts his expression, and for once she see's the display of concern and terror reflect in the eyes of a privileged Ark citizen. His mouth forms a line of desperation, his grip hard when he grabs her wrist. The action momentarily shocks her before she rips herself from his grasp.

"Clarke." His throat burns with the struggle to remain calm. "You need to be careful. Stay off the streets. You don't know what you're about to be up against." He eyes her, his steady glare meeting her unexpected eyes. "I mean it."

She stares at him, her head shaking in disbelief and a fear of the unknowing. She wonders what he knows, wonders _who_ knows, wonders how much longer they have until there's another change, a change they're not planning for.

Questions blaze at the edge of her lips, but Wells doesn't hear, because he's already retreating from her, leaving the medical bay and the zone of the unprivileged.

* * *

 

ii.

The Pit contains a tense atmosphere when they gather in the bunker that night.

Bellamy stands beside her, his arms crossing over his chest as he faces the various people around them. There only a few, the people they trust the most, the people who have proven their alliance and commitment to the rebellion.

He's silent, calculating, wearing the same expression he gave her when she told him of Wells' visit. When she told him of Well's threat. Or at least it was a warning. A warning that cautioned them to be careful, to be smart about what they plan to do next.

"I think we should hold off on the burning of the execution stand," Octavia says, finally speaking since she first entered the underground hideout. "They might know something. Might be sensing an uprising."

Bellamy shakes his head. "Octavia," he mumbles, and Clarke can dictate the verge of collapse in his voice. "If we give up, so does humanity." He pauses, gazing at the people around him. " _We_ are humanity."

"We're not giving up," Raven reasons. She steps forward, sharing a nod with Wick and Finn. "Wells came to Clarke with information he shouldn't be sharing. We shouldn't take that lightly."

Bellamy swallows thickly. His muscles tense under the material of his shirt, veins pulsing in his internal struggle to remain composure. He lowers his head, black curls falling against his skin when he exhales a deep breath.

"Bullshit," he comments. The word isn't angry. It's unknown and confused. He looks at the group one more time, his gaze holding responsibility, before he turns his body and walks towards the wall of the fallen, the wall with her parent's names.

Clarke follows him.

His body is facing away from the open room, the tension in his back tight and complex in front of her. She walks forward, her shoulder touching his when she stands beside him. She's never had the chance to be there for him, because it seems like she's always the one who needs the reassurance, and now it's her moment to return the treatment.

He sighs, speaking first. "Clarke - "

"We have to be smart about this," she whispers. Their eyes are focused on the names in front of them, a reminder of the risks and lives they lost while fighting this battle. A battle that might turn into a war. A war with only one side winning. "We need to think about our safety, reevaluate our choices."

He breathe deep, and when he responds, his voice is quieter, calmer. "Did he say anything else?"

"No."

Bellamy nods. His hands rest at the bones of his hips, eyes scanning the names in front of them. The names of people who are alive, who are dead, but nonetheless the names of the people who wanted to make a difference.

They will make a difference, they have to.

"He should know not to visit you again," he mumbles after a while, so low she almost doesn't hear.

Clarke shakes her head. "Why should he know that?"

Bellamy shrugs, his shoulders stiff. The voices from behind them echo around the room, their low murmurs speaking of different ideas, different theories of what's to come. What the council is going to do next. Clarke doesn't try to listen, her focus intent on the person beside her.

"Because then I'd have to beat the shit out of him."

Clarke almost chuckles. The sides of her lips turn upwards, despite the context of his statement, and she grins slightly. Her head turns to look at him, but he doesn't return the gaze, his eyes still tracing the wall.

"Thanks," she whispers.

"It's not for you."

Clarke wants to roll her eyes. "Sure," she says.

Octavia approaches them then, her voice tired and complex when she tells them it's getting late. Clarke is the first to turn away from him, but she can feel his presence behind her when he follows, feels his eyes at the back of her head.

And she wonders, wonders when Bellamy Blake started to become a valuable person in her life. Wonders when she started to become a valuable person in his.

* * *

 

iii.

The sound of knocking is the first thing she hears when she wakes up.

The morning sun is edging along the skyline, the light streaming into Octavia's room when Clarke opens her eyes. She props herself on her elbows, looks at Octavia beside her on the bed, and they share a look of confusion that slowly turns into concern.

Clarke draws her blonde hair into a ponytail and follows Octavia out of the room. Bellamy is already at the bottom of the stairs, his hand warning them not to come down. They ignore his protests of protection, standing behind him when he opens the front door.

A guard stands on the porch, his hands at his hips.

Clarke swallows thickly. She see's the muscles in Bellamy's jaw lock, see's his hand tighten around the door knob. She takes a shuttering breath and shifts her gaze to the guard, looks at the gun at his belt, looks at his fingers resting beside it.

"All citizens of the Ark are to report to the camp square immediately."

Bellamy nods. The movement is tense and rigid. "We'll be right - "

"Immediately."

Bellamy stares at him, his eyes hard. He turns to Clarke and Octavia behind him, and she knows what he's thinking. Knows he's thinking the same as her, thinking if this is it. If this is the warning Wells was speaking of. If this is the change that isn't the rebellion.

So she nods at Bellamy in agreement, because she knows they can't run away from this. Knows they have to face it.

_"We are humanity."_

Bellamy sighs. He returns his gaze to the guard in front of him, voice dry when he speaks again.

"Lead the way."

The camp square is crowded when they arrive, the population divided amongst the privileged and the unprivileged citizens. Divided amongst those who live and those who survive. This is the humanity they have come accustomed to observing, the type of humanity who turn against each other.

There's a repeating sound of a hammer hitting nails, deafening in the soft murmurs of the square. Clarke looks towards the source of the noise, eyes widening when she see's two large poles being drilled into the ground beside the execution stand. There's a rope that ties from each pole. It looks torturous.

The men who gather around them look unfamiliar, different from the usual guards who are responsible for their security. Or at least the privlided's security. They wear white helmets, and a white sound, a name spreading across all of their uniforms.

Mountain Men.

Clarke looks at Bellamy. He returns the glare, his expression faltering.

_"You don't know what you're about to be up against."_

There's a sense of fear that momentarily rises in her chest. The crowd echoes her thoughts, echoes her terror, speaking of the additional poles and the additional guards that surround them. She shifts her gaze from Bellamy, looking towards the man who walks along the execution stage, his hands behind his back.

Chancellor Jaha.

The soft rumble of the people around her begin to silence when he presents himself in the centre of the stand. His stance is proper, appropriate, dripping with his relief for the privileged and uneasiness for the unprivileged.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the ark," he begins. The guards with the mountain men uniforms stand around him, stand around everyone in the crowd. "I have brought you here today to discuss a very important matter. In the following months, there has been exactly four attempts at a rebellion in four camps across the nation. Only two have succeeded."

Clarke's breath falters, and she feels Octavia grip her hand. Clarke understands her actions, and she receives her message through the squeezing of her fingers. Don't show weakness, don't show fear.

"Unfortunately, there has been riots in the streets of the Ark," he continues. His tone desires terror to those he's speaking of. "This will not stand. This will not be apart of our history. This will not be how our people are remembered."

Jaha gestures towards the guards who line the perimeter of the camp square. The Mountain Men. The guards with the bigger muscles and the bigger guns. The guards with the bigger smiles.

"The Mountain Men are included in our logistic army. They are here to ensure not only our safety, but yours as well. To ensure your trust in the Ark."

Clarke's head is spinning and heart is racing. Her fingers feel numb around Octavia's hand, and her thoughts feel clouded inside her mind. This is their plan. They're trying to destroy them. Trying to destroy the rebellion.

The rebellion. They know about the rebellion.

"Anyone who goes against the Mountain Men will be punished by shock lash or will be executed. Anyone who passes the curfew of ten at night will be punished by shock or will be executed. Anyone who performs in illegal trades will be punished by shock lash or will be executed."

The list continues, his voice and words a deeper cut in Clarke's wound. And then he says the last consequence, a smile almost on his lips when he speaks to the crowd yet again.

"Anyone who practices in an uprising will be executed."

 _Executed_. There is no option. There is no chance, no freedom. Octavia's hand tightens, sending a shiver of anger and disgust down Clarke's spine. She looks at Bellamy, see's the same emotions in his eyes.

"Follow these laws, and you will not be harmed. Don't, and it will cost you your life."

* * *

 

iv.

Bellamy and Octavia have been fighting for hours.

Clarke sits on the living room couch in their cabin, her fingers rubbing absentmindedly at the skin across her forehead. The moments following Jaha's announcement has stretched into the darkness of the night, cascading a black and shallow feeling amongst the remaining members of the rebellion. Amongst the remaining citizens of the Ark.

"They can't scare us. We've been risking our lives since the beginning," she hears Bellamy urgently whisper from the kitchen. She can almost see Octavia rolling her eyes in response. "We don't stop now. We don't give up. We take the punishments and we keep fighting."

Octavia scoffs. "How?"

There's a silence that follows, and Clarke senses the inner territorial that develops in his chest. She imagines the drooping of his eyes, the intensity in them morphing into confusion and complexity. She imagines him refusing to give up.

"You're going to get us killed."

Octavia's voice is harsh through the quiet cabin. The statement seem to create a lingering in the air, and Clarke remembers the word he once spoke to her on the porch, when it didn't seem like everything was falling apart.

_"We don't get to control a lot of thing, Clarke. But we do get to control who and what we choose to live for. We get to control who and what we choose to die for."_

Clarke tenses. She knows what he's thinking. They're going to get killed anyways.

Octavia exhales deeply, exiting the kitchen area. She rushes past the living room to the staircase, her footsteps heavy as she walks up to the second level. Her quiet cries are loud in the silent cabin.

Clarke turns to observe Bellamy leaning against the stair's handrail, his head lowered in thought.

She sighs, lifting herself from the couch. Her stride is slow and painful when she approaches him, and she wonders if her actions are ever going to synchronize with the doubtful thoughts of her mind. She stands beside him, watches as he takes a shuddering breath.

"What the hell are we doing?"

His arms tense as he rests them on the railing, facing the direction in which Octavia left towards. He seems exhausted, and so stressed and confused, and she wants to remember. Wants him to remember he doesn't have to do this alone.

"We're believing," she whispers, "like our parents did."

Bellamy raises his head, his gaze settling on her face. His eyes yearn for the gentleness that the world has yet to offer them, scorns for the despair that Jaha has impended on them. Feeling bold, she continues to remind him, to make him remember.

"You saved my life. That's who you are." She leans forward. _Please_. _Remember_. "I trust you."

She does. Sometimes she wonders if she trusts him more than she trusts herself. More than she trusts the past and the future. She trusts him and she needs him. Needs him to help lead them to their own paradise.

Jaha won't stop them from trying. Won't stop them from maintaining their humanity.

He looks at her and he understands. "You should get some rest," he tells her.

His voice is gruff, almost drowning in it's complexities. There's a sense of hope and hopelessness in his tone, an internal battle between the two emotions. She attempts to guide to the first option.

Clarke smiles. "Don't do anything stupid in the mean time."

"No promises."

* * *

 

v.

Octavia accompanies her when Clarke finishes her morning shift at the medical bay, both of them walking along the perimeter of the camp in the morning sunlight. It's a cool April day, the clouds muffled by the light above them.

The camp square holds the addition of the shock lash post, and it sends shivers down her spine each time.

The Mountain Men stand in fierce positions, alining each other with their hands on their weapons. Octavia is careful, her voice soft whenever she uses it to speak of the weather, or the upcoming Trade and their supplies of rations. It's hard to say much in the open these days.

"I like spending time with Lincoln," she says when they enter the street that leads to the Pit. "And I think he likes spending time with me, too."

Clarke smiles at her. Octavia and Lincoln have been building a connection between them since Clarke first noticed their electricity in the months she's been involved in the rebellion. The relationship so new and beautiful it reminds her of how life can be, of how it should be. Raw and passionate.

"Are you going to do something about it?"

Octavia shakes her head. "Bellamy would never allow it. Trying to 'keep me safe and without heartbreak' and all that."

Clarke nods. It's only been a few nights since Jaha's announcement, since the fight that erupted between the Blake siblings. She knows Octavia is still upset about Bellamy's decision to move forward with the rebellion, despite the agreement they came to the next day, and it dawns on Octavia during her relationship with Lincoln as well.

"He just wants to protect you," Clarke informs her.

Octavia rolls her eyes in annoyance, surely familiar with the overwhelming gentleness and love her brother shows for her. Familiar with the amount of trouble he would endeavour to make sure she's safe.

"He wants to protect everyone."

Clarke doesn't argue with her on that.

They continue to stroll down the pathway that leads to the Pit, their shoulders brushing against each other as they walk. It isn't until they pass the walls, those lining with burned posters, when Charlotte runs up to them, her eyes shinning with brightness.

Her voice is energetic when she speaks of her condition, claiming she feels better and awesome and cool and fun. How she loves life. God, she's the only reminder of how powerful people can be without weapons. How they change the world with a smile.

Change the world with peace. Without violence.

"I'll have to come visit you at the medical bay soon," she tells Clarke.

Clarke laughs, introduces her to Octavia, Bellamy's sister, and Charlotte's grin widens. She beams at her, asking how he is, asking if him and Octavia can be there at the medical bay too when she visits. Can be there to play a game, to play cards. So much anticipation for the future despite the armed guards that surround them.

When she leaves, Octavia turns to her with a gentle smile. "She's cute."

"She has something," Clarke says, her lips deepening to a frown, "I couldn't figure it out. Old books say cancer, but I'm not sure."

Octavia nods, says something like 'poor kid', the poor kid who has too much passion to let the sickness affect her. She suggests continuing their walk to the Pit, how Bellamy will be waiting for them. She steps forward onto the street.

Clarke follows, her eyes searching for Charlotte's retreating figure in the distance. She isn't hard to find, since her smile brightens the entire universe.

She's not a poor kid. She's the strongest kid for having the strength to be happy in this God damn place.

Lucky kid.

* * *

 

vi.

"Punch me."

Clarke wipes the sweat that slides down her face, brushing the strands of hair sticking to her forehead. They stand in the centre of the underground arena, her body aching from the previous move he instructed her to do. He's been pushing them harder, pushing them to the point of bones breaking and bruises forming.

Bellamy positions himself in front of her, his body close. His shirt soaks in the area surrounding his chest, and she can see his muscles flexing beneath the material.

Clarke shake her head, raising her eyes to his. "What?"

"Punch me," he repeats confidently.

She nods, clenching her hands into fists. She can hear the whispering snickers of Raven and various rebellion members in the background, or at least the rebellion members who didn't allow Jaha's announcement to terrify them. To scare them into giving up. Into giving in.

_Fuck you, Jaha._

Clarke eyes Bellamy's jaw, and swings her fist.

He's quick, his fingers wrapping around her wrist before her knuckles collide with his skin. He turns her towards him, bending her arm behind her spine when her back slams against his chest. She yelps, her head slamming into his shoulder. The giggles releasing from Raven erupts a flush on the surface of Clarke's face.

Bellamy's breath is hot against her neck. "I guess I should have said _try_ to punch me."

"Funny."

He chuckles, releasing his grip on her. Her skin burns when she steps away from him, the contact a reminder of the feeling she doesn't want to feel. The feeling she can't afford to feel. She turns again to face him, trying to hide the redness that spreads across her cheeks.

"Here," he mumbles, his gaze lowering to her midriff. He rests his hands on the flesh that covers her waist, pulling her closer towards him. "Use your hips to elaborate on power."

She nods. His face is near, and she looks at him, counting the freckles that run beneath his eyes. She tries to distract herself, tries to think of anything other than the burning sensation of his fingers on her body.

God damn it, pull it together, Griffin. There's a war to win.

"And your eyes," he continues. He reaches towards her, gripping her chin between his fingers and lifting her head in a satisfying position. "Don't look at the place you want to hit. Now punch me."

Clarke swallows thickly, eyes tracing the depths of his glare until he begins to return it. He parts his lips slightly, his hands on her shoulders, burn to burn. Fire to fire.

And she lowers herself onto the ground, her legs swiping beneath his feet. He tumbles onto the matt in her victory.

Bellamy is lying on his back when she crawls on top of him, her legs straddling his stomach. It seems wrong and right and good and bad when she senses the warmth enter her skin, enter her heart. As corny as it fucking sounds.

His eyes are dark and round when she leans forward, a reflection of heat in his eyes when she's close. Grinning, she taps her fist against his cheek.

"Score."

He shakes his head. "Doesn't count."

"I punched you. It totally does."

He smiles then, a playful and hesitant smirk that reaches his eyes. He rests his hands on her knees before moving them to the matt, his fingers gripping the springs beneath them. The eyes that surround them observe the scene from a distance.

"You cheated."

"I improvised," she presses.

Bellamy rolls his eyes, and she lifts her body so she's standing above him. She offers her hand, a teasing grin on her lips, a perk in her eyes when she looks down at him. He takes it, and she pulls him up, his hand warm against her skin.

"Okay, Griffin," he finally admits, "not bad."

Clarke exhales deeply. She drops her arms to her sides, her palms sweaty and her fingers tingling with flames. She rubs them absentmindedly against the material of her pants, riding the evidence of the affect he has on her.

"We should leave," he says after a moment. He turns to Octavia behind them, standing and watching with Lincoln in the distance. "O, let's get a move on."

Octavia steps forward, shaking her head. "I think I'm going to stay and practise a bit," she tries. Her expression is hopeless, and she glances at Clarke, urging.

Bellamy releases a grunt of disapproval. He swallows thickly, crossing the strong length of muscles across his chest. He analyzes the close proximity between his sister and Lincoln, and he shakes his head, opening his mouth to speak.

Clarke beats him to it. "Be safe," she calls towards her. She turns to Bellamy, cautioning his hesitant expression. "She'll be fine. Now come on."

He's grumpy and not happy about it, but he follows her anyway.

* * *

 

vii.

And he sure as hell expresses that to her, telling her his concern about letting Octavia walk home without him, about letting Octavia practice alone with a man he doesn't exactly know. She tells him he's a typical, anxious, overprotective big brother .

What she doesn't tell him, although, is the teasing feeling that grows inside her chest at his words.

That damn odd emotion she doesn't like to think or talk or feel at all. His shoulder brushes a bit closer to hers when they pass by the line of Mountain Men that stand to the side. When they pass by the shock lash post.

They're crossing the camp square when they first hear the sobbing.

Clarke turns, her body freezing at the familiar sound that muffles from the person's mouth. She searches, eyes frantic and desperate, heart racing and halting. Her gaze lands on the three people that walk along the street, two Mountain Men guards dragging a young girl in their grasp.

A young girl. The young girl.

"Charlotte."

Clarke runs towards her.

Her legs are heavy as she rushes along the ground, her eyes never leaving the fear that passes through Charlotte's eyes. The fear that was once filled with hope and brightness and love. The fading of Bellamy's voice is in the distance of her mind, yelling, but she can still sense him behind her.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she hisses when she reaches them. Bellamy grabs her arm, stopping her from lunging forward.

She can dictate the emotions on Charlotte's face, can dictate the same emotions Clarke felt that one night in the alleyway. Her gut feels tight and her heart feels cold. Bellamy did something for Clarke, and now Clarke will do something Charlotte.

She _has_ to. Beautiful, young Charlotte.

One of the Mountain Men guards steps forward, blocking the view of Charlotte squirming in their arms. He places a fierce hand on the gun that settles at the side of his hip, attempting to intimate them.

"Step back, Miss."

Clarke shakes her head. "What are you doing?"

"I said, step back. Now."

Bellamy wraps his fingers tighter along Clarke's elbow. He guides her backwards, almost behind him, almost secure, except for the feeling of helplessness that swims in both their chests.

A feeling of helplessness as the Mountain Men guards closes his hand around his gun.

Charlotte screams, a high pitched cry for Clarke and Bellamy that sends shivers down her spine. Her eyes are wide and terrified, eliminating the happiness from her expression and replacing it with apprehension.

Clarke wants to tell her it's okay, that everything will be okay, but it's not.

She never gets the chance.

The guard steps forward, his hand gripping his weapon, lifting from the belt at his hip. His expression is almost amused when he aims it at Clarke, when he aims it at Bellamy, and his finger inches towards the trigger. So slow and agonizing and Clarke isn't sure what she's feeling but fear isn't one of them.

Bellamy pushes Clarke behind him, and swings his fist at the guard's jaw.

There's the mixture of sound when a gunshot and the cracking of bones echo into the night. Bellamy curses, and Clarke reaches forward, pulling him towards her as the fear now enters her body. She searches his body for an entry wound, an exit wound, anything but there's nothing.

Clarke's eyes widen in realization as the guard stumbles backward, into the remaining guard, into Charlotte.

Charlotte.

Charlotte, who holds one of the Mountain Men's guns in her hands, a hole in her forehead.

Charlotte, who collapses onto the concrete, her once youthful appearance cascading into her lifeless corpse.

Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy fuck.

"No . . . "

Her word is a broken cry when Clarke whispers it, when she looks at the blood seeping into the ground at her feet. This can't be real, this can't be happening. The good people aren't supposed to die like this. The bad people aren't supposed to win like this.

 _Charlotte_. The sick kid who looked at the world with beauty and wonder. The sick kid who knew she was sick, who knew she was dying. The sick kid who ended her life in order to save other's, to save Clarke's, or Bellamy's.

Fuck, Charlotte.

The tears are hot against her cheeks when they fall, and she isn't aware that she's shaking until Bellamy rests his hands on her shoulders. His grip is soft and gentle, cautious. It feels familiar, and it shouldn't, because he shouldn't have to comfort her so many times. He shouldn't have to witness so many deaths with her.

The Mountain Men curse under their breaths, something about 'stupid kid' and 'wasting damn bullets'. But Clarke can't breathe. Can't feel. Can't articulate the anger, can't really register what's going on.

This wasn't supposed to happen. She was supposed to save her.

But she can't save anybody. None of them can.

The Mountain Men make a comment towards them, something she doesn't hear because all she sees and feels is the ache in her heart as they pick up Charlotte's lifeless body, dragging her. Beautiful, young Charlotte.

"What did I do?"

Bellamy whispers those comforting words, those words too familiar and soothing. She turns in his arms, pressing her face into his chest as his arms wrap around her body. He rubs his hands against her back and pulls her close, and she knows he's thinking the same thing.

_What did we do?_


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's part 2 of chapter 3 :) Enjoy!

i.

Her hands are shaking as she sits in the wooden chair across from Chancellor Jaha.

There's blood on them, not her blood, not the Mountain Men's blood, but Charlotte's blood. The blood that swept through her skin once the bullet entered her forehead, the blood that stained the ground and her vision.

The blood of the youth, the blood of the innocent.

Innocent. Charlotte was innocent.

"Clarke," Jaha slurs, but she can't hear anything except the thudding of her heart, "the Mountain Men said this death was a suicide. Do you agree with this statement?"

She releases a shuddering breath, glancing at the two Mountain Men guards that stand to the right of the room. They position themselves in a professional stance, their arms, once gripping the struggling body of Charlotte, now perched behind their backs in manner.

The room that surrounds them is covered in glamour, obtaining photo albums and frames of wonderful memories. Wonderful memories that only exist in the West end of the Ark.

Wonderful memories that don't include death and destruction.

"Clarke."

Her eyes are frantic when they land on his, the big man with the big responsibilities in his big chair.

"How do you rule the death of Charlotte O'Hara?"

Clarke swallows visibly. She feels the tension seize her body, feels the anger burn her throat. She wants to tell him their plans prior to her demise, wants to tell him their attempts at intimidation and threats. But she's sure he already knows. This has been going on for years.

She wants to tell him to go fuck himself, but she doesn't.

She doesn't because she's going to fucking kill him.

Clarke breathes deeply, trying to remove the rage from her voice when she speaks because, inevitably and when the time is right, her voice will sometime be the last thing Thelonious Jaha will ever hear.

"It was a suicide, sir."

* * *

 

ii.

Her heart feels a lot heavier when she stands in the kitchen of the Blake cabin.

After Clarke's inquisition with Chancellor Jaha, it was officially revealed that the death of Charlotte O'Hara was intentional and a circumstance of her mental state. No consequences, no one held responsible, just an incident of the flick of the wrist. Just an accident of the pull of the trigger.

Clarke winces. The sound has yet left her mind.

Octavia's hands are gentle as she scrubs the remaining stain of red that covers Clarke's body. She doesn't remember how long she held Charlotte's corpse, or how long she wept until the tears disappeared. She doesn't remember if it was minutes, or hours, that Bellamy had his arms wrapped around her.

All she remembers is that Charlotte was dead.

"Everything should settle down for the night."

Octavia turns to the additional voice in the kitchen. Bellamy leans against the doorframe, his eyes displaying the same intensity and yearning, yet more controlled. There's a tint of blood that remains on his sleeve.

"That's good," Octavia whispers. She returns her gaze to the motionless girl beside her, placing the blood cloth on the kitchen counter. "I'm going to go grab you some extra clothes, okay?"

Clarke doesn't say anything. Just nods. She doesn't want them to hear the weakness of rage and despair in her voice.

Octavia sighs, pressing a reassuring hand against her cheek before exiting the kitchen. There's a moment of silence as Bellamy continues to lean against the doorframe, and Clarke can almost see his arms crossed over his chest, can almost feel his gaze on the back of her head.

But she doesn't want him here. Doesn't want him to see the weakness of rage and despair in her eyes.

It doesn't matter, and she knows before he's standing beside her that he won't leave. He picks up the red cloth from the counter and throws it in the sink, his expression a pure indication that he isn't going anywhere, that he isn't leaving her side.

Damn him for caring.

He's looking at her, but she can't look at him. "That wasn't your fault," he whispers.

Clarke swallows thickly. Her throat burns at the reminder, the reminder that they're in the middle of a war, on a side that keeps losing. A side that keeps losing rations and health and treatment and people. A side that her parents trusted, that her and Bellamy trusted, a side that has only caused death.

"There's no going back," she says through gritted teeth. She keeps her eyes focused on the window in front of her, on the landscape of earth she's never experienced outside the walls. "We started something tonight. Something we can't stop."

She turns to him then, see's the hopeless emotions that are displayed on his face. "I need you to promise me," she calculates, "that they will answer for her death. For everyone's death."

Bellamy shakes his head. "You don't want to be that person, Clarke."

The way that he says her name almost breaks her. His eyes are desperate when they look into hers, and she wonders what he's searching for, wonders if he found out. She doubts he has, doubts he ever will.

She's nowhere found.

Clarke tries to sound strong, but he keeps staring at her and she's starting to feel weak again. "You don't know me," she whispers.

"I do."

No. He shouldn't. He shouldn't know her because everyone she knew is dead and everyone who knew her is dead. He shouldn't even want to know her, shouldn't even try.

But then she remembers who he is, the boy who saved her that one night in the alley. The boy who tried to save her a second time. He's the boy who will never leave, no matter how dangerous that task will become.

_God damnit, Bellamy._

If it weren't for Octavia, returning to the kitchen and calling her name for bed, she's not sure if she would have left. Not sure if she would have stopped looking at him. Not sure if he would have stopped looking at her.

Because if he's not leaving, then neither is she.

* * *

 

iii.

Clarke props herself on the dining room chair across from Octavia, her bruised hands fumbling with the bottle in front of her. The object is small, almost unfamiliar in Octavia's hands, her eyebrows quizzical as she analyses it.

Clarke remembers the first time her mother told her how to make the medicine bottles, how confused and concerned she was with being responsible for such an important task. These are the inventions they relied on to live, to continue their lifestyle in the Ark.

"It's not as hard as it looks," Clarke tells her.

Octavia releases a huff of determination. It's early in the afternoon, the camp still belonging to a sense of silence as people continue to wake up. The hours following Charlotte's death have been hard, almost impossible, but the girl sitting in front of Clarke and the boy resting on the couch in the living room made them survivable.

Survivable, even though, her hopes to see Jaha fall to his demise still exist. Survivable, even though, her hopes to see the unprivileged citizens of the East end obtain equality still exists, no matter what has to be done in order for that to happen.

The rage inside her still flutters, but whenever Bellamy looks at her in _that_ way, the anger doesn't seem worth it.

Octavia picks up one of the medical utensils on the table. "Okay," she says, "let's get started."

But before she can act on it, there's a knock on the door.

Bellamy instantly rises from the couch, his body facing them as the slamming continues to repeat on the surface of the wood. He glances at them shortly, eyes guarding them to not panic, but the swelling in her chest doesn't stop from rising.

Jaha already released them from their inquisition, there's nothing left to be done or said.

Bellamy must be thinking it too, because when he glares at her again, there's the similar panic in his eyes.

"Bell," Octavia whispers, desperate. She follows him when he walks towards the front door, Clarke stepping behind them, and for once she hopes that horrible things will stop happening to them for a while. At least stops happening to the Blake siblings. But then Bellamy opens the door, and her heart almost shatters.

Two fucking Mountain Men guards stand on the porch, arms perched behind their backs.

No. No, no, no . . .

"Gentlemen," Bellamy acknowledges, and she can hear the unsettling tone in his voice.

The guards step forward, their arms wounding from their backs to rest on the weapons at their side. Their expressions are cold when they walk into the house, both of them grabbing Bellamy by the shoulders and positioning him in a predatory stance. The flash of handcuffs spark Clarke's vision.

"What the fuck?" She reaches forward, tries to stop them, but Octavia pushes her back.

The guard locks the handcuffs onto Bellamy and pull him over the threshold. "Bellamy Blake, you are - "

Clarke thrashes from Octavia's arms. "Stop!"

" - under arrest for the physical harassment of one Mountain Men guard as of last evening."

The rage begins to rise Clarke's chest again, rage and disbelief and fear and despair. She can hear the whimpering escape from Octavia's lips as she struggles for her to remain calm, but it doesn't matter, because Bellamy isn't the one soothing her.

She tries to walk towards them, but one of the guards steps in front of her, his weapon drawn.

"You can't do this."

Bellamy twists from his position in their grasp. "Clarke. Stop." And when he looks at her, he's got that _look_ , and she feels her anger dissolve, feels it turn into the terrifying realization that she might lose him. God, she might lose him.

Octavia reaches over the threshold and pulls Clarke back into the house, her hands covering her shoulders as the both of them shake in unison. Octavia's brother. Clarke's - Clarke's _Bellamy_.

"The punishment of your freedom is twenty shock lashes in the camp square in three hours," one of the guards states, and it pierces wounds in her heart because holy fuck that could kill him. That could kill him and they know it and that can't happen because she needs him.

She needs him. She _needs_ him to live - for the rebellion, for Octavia, for herself.

Clarke is about to speak when the guard points an accusing finger at her. "Another word from you and you'll receive thirty."

The rage starts in her chest again, and then immediately deflates when he gazes at her with that intensity and passion she wonders if she'll ever see in a man again. He shakes his head, and she can almost hear his thoughts, yearning for her to stop, for her to stay with Octavia, promising her he'll be alright.

And she can't lose him, so she decides to believe that, decides to believe that he'll be okay.

The guards exit the porch then, Bellamy stumbling along them with handcuff on his hands, and it isn't until Octavia weeps into her shoulder, her face cluttered in the crook of her neck does Clarke realize that she's crying too.

* * *

 

iv.

The camp square files with guards and authorities, masking the atmosphere with a sense of professionalism that reflects in their eyes. They stand along the perimeter, arms tight at their sides, guns tucked into the side of their belt.

They wear expressions of dullness, as usual, never displaying the emotions they crave. If they even have any.

The open space is occupied by most citizens of the Ark. The unprivileged are attending the torture because they are curious as to what it will feel like if they were to be in the same position. The privileged are attending purely for entertainment.

Clarke and Octavia stand in the front of the crowd, facing the shock lash pole with an overwhelming feeling of anguish. It's been hours since Bellamy was taken from their home, since she last saw the eyes that neutralized her rage.

Now all she feels is concern and worry and desperation.

Octavia clenches her hand around Clarke's arm. Her nails dig into her skin, and she can feel the fear rising in her chest, feel the anxiety clogging her throat when she directs her towards the centre of the square.

Three Mountain Men guards walk towards the shock lash post, uniforms wrapping around their bodies. Bellamy struggles in their grasp, shirtless, his hands tied behind his back and a blindfold covering his vision.

"Oh God," Octavia whispers.

Clarke can't feel the rage this time. Or the fear. She can't feel anything.

Chancellor Jaha follows behind as they bring Bellamy against the poles. They unlock his hands and tie them to the rope that falls from the top of the two posts, squeezing tightly at his wrists. He hunches forward when they release them, and he stands there, waiting, lips twitching in anticipation for the first of the twenty tortious impacts.

Finn shakes his head from beside them. "This isn't right."

"Of course not," Raven mumbles, glancing at him from her spot next to Wick, "this is the Ark."

Jaha steps forward to face the crowd. He almost appears as if he's trying to hide a smile, but there's a glint in his eyes that displays a disgusting type of excitement at what is about to happen.

"Citizens of the Ark," he begins. "Bellamy Blake is a man who has broke a law of our followings and will pay the price. For those who have the same tendencies, this will happen to you as well if you do not support the Council and their decisions."

Clarke clenches her fists at her sides and the rage awakens inside her. She's going to fucking kill him.

It's instant then, as Jaha nods towards one of the guards standing beside Bellamy. He raises his hand, and Clarke notices a long bar in his grasp, a bar that sizzles with energy and electricity. He stands behind Bellamy, and presses the object to the skin on his back.

Bellamy's grunt of pain releases the building misery Clarke has been suppressing.

_One shock lash._

Octavia winces, her eyes falling closed as they continue to lash him, as his mouth continues to form words of ache and anguish. Every cry is endless, too long and too many, and it makes Clarke want to do something. Anything.

But she can't. All she can do is watch as they torture him.

_Seven shock lashes._

Jasper makes a sound of discomfort, and he turns to Monty, their eyes locking. This is their leader, the man who brought the rebellion back together after the previous leader was killed. He is the rebellion.

_Thirteen shock lashes._

If he dies, everyone dies.

_Nineteen shock lashes._

Bellamy is almost unconscious now, his head bobbing against the front of his chest. Blood streams from the sides of his body, from his back, each stream of red a trigger towards Clarke's hatred.

Her mother is dead. Her father is dead. Charlotte is dead. But Bellamy can't die, he can't leave.

Fuck. She doesn't want to need anyone, or depend on anyone, but God, she's so stupidly guilty of it.

_Twenty shock lashes._

There's a breath of relief when the guard presses the bar to Bellamy's flesh for the last time. The crowd is almost empty now, some of them leaving, some of them not able to observe the cruel act. But the privileged . . . the privileged stayed.

Even enjoyed it.

This can't be how it is for the rest of their lives, this can't be how they survive. Not when the guards untie the knots around Bellamy's wrist, and he weakly collapses to the ground. Not when she runs towards him, Octavia and the others behind her, their eyes wet with worry.

Not when they've already risked and sacrificed so much.

Jaha and the guards step aside from the scene when Clarke reaches him. She doesn't even care, doesn't care that Jaha is close enough for her to dig her nails into his eyes, because Bellamy is in front of her and he's hurt and bleeding and she has to stop it before she crashes.

She kneels in front of him, holds his face between her hands. Finn and Wick remove the ropes that cling to his body, and she ruffles her fingers in his hair, pealing the blindfold off. His eyes are closed and exhausted. His lips are dry with blood and misery.

His sight hurts her, but she tries to hide it. Tries to hide the concern weaving from her tone when she speaks.

"Bellamy?"

He slightly opens his eyes. "Clarke?"

The sound of his voice is the most beautiful thing she's ever heard. Clarke sniffles, tears escaping her gaze, as she nods at him. Her fingers trace soothing lines against his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, anywhere she can reach.

"It's okay, it's okay," she whispers. "I'm going to make the pain go away."

Bellamy hiccups, a strangling of a noise. She presses her palm against his face once more before nodding towards Finn and Wick above them, who are beginning to lift him, positioning him between them. Octavia is silent behind them as they walk, can't even speak, and when Clarke turns to her she knows why.

Because, indented into the skin of Bellamy's back, is a single word.

_"Stop."_

* * *

 

v.

It's a clutter of blood and echoes of yelling when they enter the Blake cabin.

Bellamy's back is continuing to break under his flesh, and there's more stains of red, more droplets of pain and anguish. Clarke crosses over the threshold, directing Finn and Wick to the kitchen.

Octavia is screaming words of loss and grief, and Raven shakes her head at her, trying to calm her. Clarke nods at the two boys in front of her and gesture them towards the table. She pushes objects and plates off the surface of the wood to make room.

"Drop him on his stomach."

The boys nod, and there's another grunt of agony as they lower Bellamy onto the kitchen table. His back is burning, puffs of smoke releasing from his open skin, and she can't even see a single patch of his own colour. There's red. Red is everywhere.

"Octavia," she shouts, beckoning the young girl forward. "I need you to get me that cream."

Octavia stands there, dumbfounded at the scene of her brother cringing on the table.

"Octavia!"

She jerks her head toward her then, and there's a flash of sadness before she nods, and the despair in her eyes is suddenly gone. She leaves the kitchen, running up the stairs to retrieve the medicine.

Clarke breathes heavily, turning back to the wounded man in front of her. The word on his back is agonizing, worrying, but she shakes her head. She can't worry about that now.

But Finn notices. "What the hell does that fucking mean?" he argues, pointing to Bellamy's back.

Clarke swallows. She doesn't answer, stepping towards the table and pressing her palm against Bellamy's cheek. His temperature warm, and then cold, and she wonders if it's her paranoia because there's so many complicating thoughts in her head that she can't even think.

Bellamy grunts again, and she sighs. _Don't fucking crash, Griffin._

Octavia returns to the kitchen then, the cup of cream in her hands. "Here," she insists, pushing it into Clarke's grasp. "Just. Do whatever it takes. Please."

Clarke looks at her, the sadness that was once enveloping her glare now replaced with determination. She exhales, because she's not the only one at risk of losing someone. Or something. Or whatever Bellamy is to her.

Clarke swiftly closes her eyes, spreads the cream along her palms, and presses them onto Bellamy's back.

His cry of torment is suffocating.

"Octavia," Clarke whispers, because she's getting desperate now. "He needs to relax."

The brunette nods at her, and kneels on the floor beside her brother. She pushes her hands into his hair, ruffles the curls and brings her lips to his forehead. Clarke hears the words she whispers to him, and she's reminded of the words he whispered to her that night of the alley. And that night her mother died.

He's saved her way too many times for her to fail him now.

She rubs her fingertips along his back and he hisses. "I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_."

Raven breaks her silence from the side of the room, almost stuttering. She stands between Finn and Wick, tearing her eyes from his back to Clarke's complex glare. She returns it with fire and flames.

"What do you want us to do?" Raven demands, glancing at the prominent word carved into Bellamy's skin.

Clarke bites on her bottom lip, looking amongst the people in the room, their eyes filled with dread and worry and something of a cease. Bellamy's flesh is still burning underneath her fingertips, his groans layering the kitchen. There's no God damn way out.

"I have no fucking clue."

* * *

 

vi.

The wails of pain that stretched throughout the Blake cabin have lowered into a comfortable hissing, a burning reminder of the torment still to come. The torment of being apart of the rebellion, of being responsible for destruction, of being a citizen of the Ark.

It's dark now, the black clouds cascading the front porch in a sense of weary. Clarke sits on the steps, her head in her hands as Bellamy continues to rest inside. His back will heal, someday, somehow, with the right treatment. He'll be okay.

For how long, Clarke doesn't know.

There's a swinging of the front door as Octavia steps outside. She settles herself beside Clarke, and she doesn't need to look at her to notice the exhaustion lingering in her eyes. To see the determination beginning to fade.

"Here," she says, handing her a wet cloth. "Clean up."

Clarke takes it from her outstretched hand. She wipes the red that covers her skin, that covers her vision and her mind. She doesn't know how many times she's had to wipe the blood off her hands.

It's silent for a moment before Octavia speaks again. "You did good today," she whispers, her voice soft.

Clarke shakes her head. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore because there's no going forward, no plans of what's to happen next. The rage that once sang in her chest is fading, replacing with a grief of a future she will never have. A victory she will never know.

She fists the cloth in her grasp. She wants to fucking kill Jaha.

"The Ark is a lot more powerful than I imagined it to be."

Octavia nods. The imaginary feeling of triumph, a triumph that was never possible, was a feeling that all members of the rebellion had. A desperate thought for desperate measures. They can't win. They're just fucking delusional.

There's no rebellion. That doesn't exist. There's no victory. That doesn't exist.

Octavia plays with the torn material at her sleeve. "This is how it's going to be for the rest of our lives," she mumbles.

Clarke swallows thickly. The unfairness of the Trade, the inequality of the privileged and unprivileged. There's no breaking the cycle of what the citizens live by, by what the people survive by. It'll never get better.

Clarke counters for a moment. "Why can't we go outside?" she asks.

"No," Octavia murmurs. She shakes her head in surrender. "No one makes it outside."

Clarke sighs. She wonders what her father would think, what her father would tell her if he heard her speaking of false determination and hopes. She wonders if he was just as delusional as she previously felt. That they actually had a chance at equality and a live worth living.

"This is our life," Octavia tells her. "This is how it will be for the rest of our lives."

 _I'm sorry, Dad_.

* * *

 

vii.

It's nearly morning when Clarke enters the kitchen, the curtains allowing the brightness to dimly illuminate the cabin. It's quiet, silent except for Bellamy's ragged breathing and the small hisses of discomfort his mouth releases as he sleeps.

Clarke exhales deeply. She brings a nearby chair and positions it beside the table he's resting on. She lowers herself onto the bench, leaning forward to settle her elbows on the surface of the table. His breath fans against the skin on her arms, a sweet reminder that he's still alive, still okay.

She hesitates slightly before brushing the curls on his forehead. They're wet, damp with sweat and agony, and she traces her fingers on the lines that are indented into his skin. His flesh is so soft in contrast to the carvings on his back.

Bellamy sighs when she pushes her hands into his hair, ruffling the strands that fall over his face. She leans her head against the table, and she's so close, their faces nearing in proximity, allowing her to see the freckles that appear on his cheeks.

He looks so gentle, almost innocent, and she wishes she saw more of that. More of the goodness he has.

There's a rustle of motion before he opens his eyes. He takes her in instantly, as if he always knew she was there, by his side. His brown gaze settles on her own in a way she's never seen before. In an emotion she's never felt, never seen him express.

Clarke doesn't stop caressing his hair, doesn't move any further away from him. She only slightly grins towards him, a small indication that she's okay, that he's okay. He seems satisfied by her unspoken response.

His voice is rough and hoarse when he uses it. "Hey," he mumbles.

Her smile slightly falters. "Hey."

Bellamy sighs, his breath fanning across her face. It's nice to feel, to feel the life he still has within him. She doesn't know how many times she thought she would lose him.

There's a small shadow that covers his vision. "How's Octavia?"

"Finally got her to sleep," she tells him. She twirls a strand of his hair between her fingers. "She worries too much about you."

He seems to relax at that, the tension in his muscles slowly fading. She worries too much about him, and he worries too much about her. It's a familiar cycle that the Blake siblings seem to have mastered.

Clarke swallows thickly, her finger running along his forehead. She shifts her gaze to stare at the skin that covers his face, focusing on the shapes she traces on him. The soothing lines that seem to comfort him.

"How do you feel?"

Bellamy moves his shoulders. "I've been better."

Clarke nods. She glances at the scratches on his back, at the word that shakes her to her core. She looks back towards him, and he must notice the rising panic in her eyes because his gaze instantly turns worrisome.

"Clarke - "

"They know."

Bellamy swallows. "Maybe there is no way out."

She releases a mewl of regret. The people who have died, who have sacrificed themselves, believing in a future that never possible to obtain. Believing in a life that only exists with the privileged.

He's their guide, their leader, he's supposed to know how to beat this. He's supposed to come up with a plan that will save them all and restore equality. He's supposed to fight. Not give up. _Please don't give up_.

Clarke shakes her head. "Don't say that."

_Don't say that, Bellamy. Please. Please do something._

But he doesn't, he can't, and neither can she. Neither can any of them. The Council is familiar with their plans and they'll kill them, they'll kill them before they even get the chance to fight back.

They'll kill them before they even get the chance to try.

Bellamy momentarily closes his eyes, a sign of release. He presses his cheek firmly against the surface of the table, and her hand follows, caressing the skin that tightens around his eyes. She isn't the only person giving something up.

"We tried," he whispers, so soft and light.

Yeah. They did try.

_"This is our life," Octavia tells her. "This is how it will be for the rest of our lives."_

The moment of realization dawns on her, the realization that they will forever live in danger, in unhappiness and unfairness. They will forever live by rules that create risks and rules that allow them to get raped and murdered.

Fuck. Fuck. She doesn't mean for the tears to well in her eyes. She doesn't mean for the gentle sob that escapes her lips, her fingers clutching at Bellamy's jaw. She didn't mean for her mother to die, or for Charlotte to die. She didn't want any of this to happen.

Bellamy says something, but she can't hear because the wetness has already begun to stain her cheeks. Wetness and blood. She can see the vision of his weary expression through her tears. He looks as tormented as she is. Looks as unforgiving as she feels.

So she lowers her head, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. His hands lift to soothe patterns into her hair, onto her scalp. He doesn't say anything, doesn't have anymore words of comfort left for her.

The only thing they have left is each other, but even that isn't a guarantee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! Yeah, I know it's been a sad and emotional journey for these fellas! Can't quite catch a break, can they? :( Anyways, what do you guys think? Do you think either of them have fallen in love with each other? Ou, I guess you'll have to see!
> 
> Also, just wondering if you would like the last chapter in one part or in two separate parts like I did with chapter three. Let me know and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! :)
> 
> Happy Bellarking, xoxo


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Part 1 of Chapter 4. Hope you guys like it and thanks for awesome reviews! They honestly make me write faster!

i.

The ground feels heavy where she stands in the graveyard.

It's burdening, the pressure she contains as she stares at the gravestone in front of her. No words are carved into rock, no statements of what a wonderful person she was, no background of the anarchy that caused their death. Just her name.

Charlotte O'Hara.

Clarke breathes deeply. She crosses her arms across her chest, hugging herself as the sense of lonesome embraces her. Charlotte wasn't supposed to die like that, she was supposed to grow up and be the beautiful person in the world. She already was.

And Clarke couldn't save her.

Clarke couldn't save anyone. She never will.

It's been about two weeks since the torture of Bellamy, since the realization that they won't be able to continue with the rebellion. Members have been pondering, visiting the Blake cabin to offer their comfort for Bellamy's pain and to ask what their next move is.

Clarke just shakes her head. _The next move is to try and live._

But she doesn't say that. She tells them they will come up with a decision soon, because she can't handle seeing another expression of anguish anymore. She can't handle not being able to protect anyone else.

Octavia is almost silent amongst them now, with the awareness that survival in the Ark, life in the Ark, isn't going to improve. That she will never be able to obtain the dreams of large families and countless children and endless amounts of love.

Love. That must be the odd feeling Clarke's been having. But then again, she doesn't like to think about it.

Willingly, she spent every night in the kitchen, sleeping on the chair beside Bellamy, until they decided to move him to his bedroom. He can walk now, maybe even run and fight, but it doesn't matter anymore. The only thing that matters is the passion in his eyes that, much to Clarke's relief, hasn't faded.

So the days have past, the nights have stretched, and all they can do is wish things were different. Wish the Ark was different. The only thing they can do is hope and dream of a better future.

Because, in reality, that future will never come.

* * *

 

ii.

The sky is painted in darkness when Clarke returns to the Blake cabin.

She walks up the porch steps, her hair drawn behind her ears as she crosses over the threshold. It's nearly summer, although the cabin holds a sense of coolness to it, a sense of longing and tension.

Clarke sighs, leaning against one of the walls near the entrance. She looks at the kitchen table, at the reminder of the loss and grief she was so close to feeling again that day. The blood that stains the surface of the wood creates an uneasiness in her chest. A memory only painful enough to exist in her nightmares.

No matter how hard she' tried, she cannot remove the coat of red from the table.

There's a creaking of sound, and Clarke glances towards the top of the staircase. Her grin is small when she see's Bellamy descending the stairs, almost limping, his hand clenching onto the railing. He's doing better, he is, but she knows he'll never fully recover from the mental images.

His eyes are hooded when they meet hers, and when he notices her grin, he returns it. It's forced and untruthful, much like the words of encouragement they've been trying to convince of each other recently. "It'll be okay, everything's going to be okay," never felt so questionable.

"How are you?" he asks.

Clarke slouches her shoulders. "I went to the grave today."

Bellamy nods, walking towards her in the hallway. His footsteps are slow, painfully slow, and she almost wants to reach out and pull him against her. To reach out and heal him with her hands, with her lips and her words.

She shakes her head. That can't happen.

"You okay?"

He settles himself beside her. "I'll be fine."

Clarke looks at him, the tension in his muscles as he holds his body against the wall, careful not to press his back onto it. She shuffles closer to him, their faces nearing in proximity despite the noticeable heigh difference between them.

"You don't have to lie to me, you know."

Bellamy gazes down at her. His eyes are longing with the same passion she's become attached to, and it releases a longing breath from her. A breath she hasn't even realized she was holding. It doesn't matter, nothing matters, when he looks at her like that.

He swallows thickly before answering. "I'm going to tell the others today," he says, glancing at his feet. "Tell them about our decision not to move forward. To lie low for a while."

"And you're sure?" she verifies.

Bellamy nods. He looks up from the floor, his gaze settling on her own. He looks so tired and distressed and she wonders if he's been able to sleep since the shock lash. Wonders if the nightmares haunt his memories, as do hers.

She reaches forward and lingers her hand on his arm, trying to consume some of his heartache. His skin is cool underneath her fingertips as she traces patterns along his wrist. She tries to absorb the guilt, the suffering, internal and external.

Together. _We bear it together_.

He doesn't tear his eyes from hers as she soothes him. Doesn't see it as anything but normal. This is what they've become, who they've become to each other. They've become some one to rely on, to confide in. But her heart betrays her, edging him for something more.

Then again, something more involves the risk of being hurt. And, in this world, it's a common occurrence.

He touches her hand with his own. "Too many people have died."

And, when the night stretches further into darkness, and they're rounded together in the Pit, that's what he tells them. That's what he tells the remaining members of the rebellion. Too many people have died, too many people can die.

Clarke stands beside him the entire time, and so does Octavia. They stand there as yells of regret echo the bunker, as hums of agreement sizzles the room. There's a division, people who are content with the decision and people who aren't.

But it doesn't matter, because, eventually, they understand. They understand that the Ark is too powerful. That they are not strong enough. That they don't even have a chance.

The names lacing the walls around them is screaming in protest. And it doesn't matter, they don't have a choice. The Ark never gives them a choice.

 _I'm sorry. We're sorry_.

* * *

 

iii.

Octavia eventually learns the routine of creating the medicine bottles.

It becomes essential, participating in the Trade and attempting to receive as many ration packs as possible. There's no hope for a future, no plans to make one, and they must blend in with society again. Must think and act like normal citizens.

They sit at the kitchen table, their hands silently moving as they follow the necessary instructions. They make the cream that Clarke had once used for Bellamy's back, make the syrup that she had once given to Charlotte to tame her symptoms.

Clarke winces. _Charlotte_.

It's the hardest part of living in the Ark since the execution of her mother. Walking by memories and places that remind her of the past, of the people she once knew. Remembering how and why they died, remembering her failed attempts to avenge them.

That's the hardest part, but then again, there's no such thing as an easy part to accept the unlawful acts of the Ark. There's no such thing as a solitude or relief. They will forever live in fear, no matter the rules they continue to stand by.

Bellamy is cleaning the dishes in the kitchen when the door bell rings.

He looks at her, and she looks at him. She can almost see the movement in his eyes but she gets up from the chair before he even steps forward. Her eyes avoid the blood that is still stained on the table, and she walks to the door, Bellamy and Octavia behind her. She's done hiding behind the protection of their cabin.

When she opens it, she's not surprised to see two guardsman in front of her.

Clarke clears her throat. "Can I help you?"

"Clarke Griffin," one of them sneers, the shorter of the two. "A neighbour said you'd be here."

She shakes her head. "What is it?" she demands.

The taller one, the heavier one, is the one who speaks. "Chancellor Jaha would like to speak with you in his office."

Clarke swallows thickly. She can feel Bellamy hovering behind her, can feel the tension in his body as he presses into her. She removes the alarm from her eyes, replaces it with courage. Replaces it with fearlessness.

Her tone matches her gaze, dark and steady. "Now?"

"Yes."

"No."

Clarke mutters a curse at the sound of Bellamy's voice. She turns to see Octavia trying to wrap her arm around him, trying to pull him back into the cabin. He shrugs her off, stepping over the threshold and positioning himself in front of Clarke. Always trying to be so damn brave. Always trying to get himself killed.

The shorter Mountain Men guard sighs heavily. "Sir - "

"What does he want?"

The guard's partner rolls his shoulders. "We do not hold that information," he claims. "Our job is to escort her."

Clarke takes a steady breath, trying not to betray the fierceness of her gaze. It doesn't matter what Jaha wants, doesn't matter what the guards know. She grasps Bellamy's elbow and turns him towards her, his eyes softening when they find hers.

"I'll be fine," she reassures him, though the flicker in his glare is aching. "I'll come back as soon as I can."

The guards nod in unison. "Don't worry. We'll take real good care of her."

 _Fucking assholes_.

Bellamy's stare deepens, a coldness removing the concern that was previously shown. His muscles tense under her touch, growing in rage, and she squeezes his wrist before he can turn to face them.

She shakes her head at him, her eyes pleading with his to remain unfazed. _It's not worth it, Bellamy. Please don't do something stupid_.

It's only moments until he nods, though the sternness in his glare remains. Clarke caresses her thumb over his palm before turning to Octavia, acknowledging her guarded expression with a tilt of her head. _Please don't let him do something stupid_.

When she turns back to him, he's watching her intently. "I'll be back," she promises.

And she doesn't wait for his answer, because she's already stepping towards the guards, allowing them to lead her to Jaha's headquarters.

* * *

 

iv.

Jaha opens the door to his office, a smile as false as his words of compassion.

"Miss. Griffin," he greets, voice tender and smooth. He waves to the guards who stand beside her, ridding them of their presence. "Please. Come inside."

Clarke obeys, entering his premises. "Chancellor."

His glare is intuitive as he guides her to the tables and chairs gathering in the centre of his room. His expression is in grand attempts to be delightful, portraying his darling personality when he gestures for her to sit down. She lowers herself onto the chair, staring at him with the knowledge in her eyes that she sees past his enchantment.

She reminds herself of the thoughts she's only recently displayed to Bellamy. _Don't do something stupid, Clarke_.

"Before I begin, I hope you know I am terribly sorry about your parents."

Clarke clutches onto the wood of the armchair. Her chest burns with ice, melts with fire, breath rattling inside her throat. Jaha continues to grin warmly at her, doesn't seem to be fazed by the countless acts of blood he has in his responsibility. Doesn't seem to be fazed that he's the reason her parents are dead.

What the fuck does he want? "Of course, Chancellor. Laws are laws," she answers coldly.

"I'm glad you understand," he challenges. He leans forward in his seat, crossing his hands. "I was informed you have been spending your time with the Blake siblings recently. Do you trust them?"

Clarke doesn't hesitate. "With my life."

Jaha ponders on the answer, his fingers drumming along the span of his knee. His eyes seem to deepen, darkening from his forced brightness, and she wonders what he's trying to find in her, wonders if he's found it.

"You know, the people of the East end, the unprivileged as they are called . . . they trusted your father with their lives as well."

Clarke bites on her bottom lip. Fuck. "He was a good man," she says.

Jaha smirks, a turn of his lips. He lifts himself from his chair, his hand sliding against the table as he walks towards her. The shininess of his false personality has faded, and she see's him, she see's the man who murdered her parents.

"I hope you know we, as a society, have done all we could to make this a better place," he says when he approaches her. He leans his body against the table, his knees touching hers, skin almost burning hers. "You are satisfied with the system, yes?"

She nods. "Of course."

"I'm glad to hear so," he counters. He leans forward, plastering the pretentious grin on his face. "It would be tragic if a rebellion were to rise."

Clarke swallows the growing lump of despise that rises in her throat. She looks into the eyes of the man responsible for so much suffering, looks so deep she can see the tangles of demons that occupy his soul.

"Then let's hope you're confident that you are treating your people right."

And then the devil smiles, and Clarke doesn't even flinch.

* * *

 

v.

Bellamy and Octavia are sitting on the front porch when she returns to the Blake cabin.

Her hands are clenching into fists, her eyes misting with ferocity as she stumbles along the perimeter of the camp. He rises from the steps when he notices her figure emerging through the darkness, and she can see the relief enter his eyes, the deep exhale he releases into the air.

"Clarke," he breathes.

She shakes her head. "Get inside."

She locks the front door when they cross over the threshold, her fingers shaking in her squeezing palms. Bellamy is behind her, unwrapping her nails from the indent of her skin, grasping her shoulders in an embrace that prevents her from trembling.

"Clarke," he whispers, eyes searching hers. "What happened?"

She doesn't know where to begin, how to explain the moments she only recently experienced. Her gaze settles on the brown depths in front of her, desperately seeking the passion that comforts her.

Clarke breathes deeply when she finds it, leaning against his touch.

She tells them of Jaha's attempts at gaining intel on the rebellion, of how he mentioned her parents and asked her if she could trust the Blake siblings. Asked her the question she's been thinking for months, been sure of for months.

Octavia steps forward. "What did you say?"

"What do you think?"

Octavia nods shyly then, displaying a calculating expression.

Clarke looks at Bellamy, see's the dread resting in his eyes when he returns her gaze. He seems lost, desperate, knowing that what they've done, what they've decided for their people might not have been the best decision. Knowing that Jaha and the threats of the Ark are still out there.

"We can't do anything," she tells him, because she needs him to know. "All we can do is stay alert. Watch for signals, hints, whatever it is . . . "

His breath ruffles the strands of her hair when he sighs. "Yeah."

She reaches forward, not having to go far due to the close proximity of their bodies, and rests her hands on his arms. She glances at Octavia, including her, before studying him with a glint of determination. A determination that doesn't feel quite right or real.

"We'll figure something out."

He gives her a sad smile, one that doesn't reach his eyes.

* * *

 

vi.

It's been two days, and the apprehension in Bellamy's eyes hasn't faded.

The gaze that has once burned her with passion and devotion now simmer with the softness of concern. He looks at Octavia with an overbearing need to protect her from anyone who walks by, looks at Clarke with the assumption of danger being near.

She knows that he's only worried, that he's looking for the signals and hints like she told him they should do. Knows this is normal precautions after being told by the chancellor that he is watching them. And Clarke feels it too. Displays the anxiety of the future. And so does Octavia.

They all do. They're all fucking paranoid.

"Is Octavia sleep?"

It's late in the night when Clarke leans against the kitchen counter, her eyes on his face as he washes the dishes. He acknowledge her with a slight nod, focusing on the water that flows down his hands.

She clears her throat. "Not making a sound," she says.

"That's good." He reaches forward to turn off the tap, wiping his hands on a nearby cloth. "These things worry her."

"Do they worry you?"

Bellamy turns to her, his eyes flaming with the exposure she's attached herself to. He steps towards her, leaning against the counter beside her as he focuses his gaze on the wall in front of them, the wall with the picture frames of his mother and father, a wall of the past.

She looks at him, see's the tension in his jaw, the stiffness of his muscles.

"My entire life . . . I just wanted to protect people," he whispers. His voice is strained with the words he's been hiding inside his heart. "Turns out, I can't protect anyone."

Clarke briefly closes her eyes. "Bellamy - "

He shakes his head. His fingers clench underneath the edge of the counter, his chest releasing a longing exhale as he shifts towards her. His eyes collapse any control she has, collapse any words or sentences she can form.

"Not even the people I try to protect the most," he murmurs.

Clarke swallows thickly, her head visibly shaking. She leans closer to him, her body turning in the direction of his, her hands brushing his arm. She needs him to understand, needs him to stop worrying.

But this is Bellamy. _Bellamy_ _Blake_. The man who saved her more times than she remembers. He'll never stop.

She tries to convince anyway. "I'll be fine," she promises.

"I wasn't talking about you."

Clarke releases a small huff of humour, a feeling she hasn't felt or expressed in too long. She shouldn't be laughing, of course she shouldn't, they're in the middle of a damn war, but he smiles, a smile that momentarily removes the concern from his eyes.

And suddenly its worth it.

"See," she pokes his side, "there's still room for smiles in this world."

He ruffles his hair. "Maybe."

Clarke sighs, her grin slowly faltering from the edge of her lips. She wants it to be like this, she does, for them to be carefree and act as if the world isn't falling apart around them. Wants them to act on how they feel, whatever that may be, however impossible it may seem.

But they can't. Can only think of trying not to get killed.

A frown deepens onto Bellamy's expression, a frown that maintains the anxiety returning to his eyes. He seems so confused, so lost in the complications of the world that Clarke wonders if she'll ever see him smile again.

Wonders if he could ever reciprocate whatever odd feeling she has towards him.

"They couldn't have just let you go," he mumbles. "Just a talk."

Clarke tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "It seemed more like a warning," she says.

Bellamy nods. The concern of his gaze sinks into his expression, forming his features to his vulnerability. She remembers when he first came to her about the rebellion, words of dedication and statements of victory easily slipping through his lips. Now all that lingers is the false lie of a future that will never come.

Clarke reaches forward, her hand resting on his. "Hey," she whispers. He looks at her with a new found softness. "We'll be okay."

He doesn't seem entirely convinced, but he allows her to think so, and that's enough for her.

Enough for now.

* * *

 

vii.

It's in the late hours of the night as Clarke continues her shift at the medical bay, the expectation of returning to the tradition of work and labour a diversion that she has committed herself to. A diversion that she has hoped would distract her from all her troubles and fears, from all her unanswered questions.

And it was working, it truly was, until she glanced at the mattress where Charlotte used to rest on, and then reality fucking hits.

And it hits hard. And it hits painfully.

Clarke fumbles with the needles that she holds in her grasp, laying them on the surface of a nearby bedside table. It shouldn't be this hard. The living part. It shouldn't be this hard to live, or at least try to.

But it doesn't matter, because suddenly there's a scream, and a cry of agony, and Clarke's not the only one fighting to survive.

"Clarke!"

She turns towards the source of the noise, her eyes landing on Raven, bruised and dirty, stumbling through the entrance of the medical bay. Her arms are wrapped around Finn as he slouches into her side, blood pouring from an open wound at his ribs.

 _Fuck_. Reality is so God damn unpleasant.

Clarke rushes towards them, noticing the fading hope in his eyes. "Get him on the bed," she orders.

Raven grunts, and Clarke assists her in bringing Finn over to the nearby mattress, the mattress that she was only imaging Charlotte laying on a few moments ago. The mattress that snapped her back to reality. Fucking reality.

Clarke tears at his shirt, lifting his body to remove it. She throws the material onto the ground, reaching forward to grab gloves from the table next to her. She slides her hands into them, her eyes never leaving the pool of red that seeps into the cushion.

"What happened?"

Raven stifles a sob. "We wanted to write words on a store," she tells her, and Clarke ignores the feeling that escapes her. Doesn't know if it's rage or pride. "But a Mountain Men guard saw us, shot him while we ran."

 _Shit_. Clarke swallows the rising burden that startles her lungs, making it hard to breathe. She presses her fingers into his side, and he screams, and then Raven cries, and the room is echoing in pain and destruction.

"There's an exit hole," Clarke sighs, trying not to think about the amount of blood that is covering the surface of her scrubs. "But we need to work fast. Patch him up and get him out of here. They'll come looking for him soon. Did they see you?"

Raven stares at Finn, tears trembling down her cheeks.

"Raven! Did they see you?"

She looks up at Clarke, shaking her head. "We had our hoods."

"Good."

She places her hands on his wound, keeping consistent pressure on the flow of fluids that leaks through his body. There's so much blood, and Clarke looks at the trail of red that starts from outside the medical bay, prays to whatever the hell is up there that the Mountain Men don't follow it here.

"Raven," she whispers, "I'm going to need you to - "

There's a shout of misery and anguish erupting from Finn's lips and Raven sobs. "Please don't let him die," she whimpers. The emotion in her eyes look familiar. "He's my best friend. Please don't him die. Please don't - "

Clarke grunts out a response. "You want to help him?"

Raven nods desperately, wiping at the tears that stain her cheeks. She pushes the strands of hair that fall into the frame of her face, breathing deep, trying to breathe in composure.

"Okay," Clarke tries to remain the same mindset, but Finn's body is breaking apart in her hands and it's hard to think. "Clean the blood so it doesn't lead the Mountain Men here. Do you understand?"

Raven nods, and _Get Bellamy_ , she wants to add, but she chooses not to.

"Just please, don't let him - "

Clarke shakes her head. "I won't."

And then, unwillingly, Raven leaves, grabbing a nearby cloth and exiting the medical bay in a quickening pace. Clarke takes the needle and thread, tries to prevent the worrisome that vibrates her body, doesn't think about the possibility of them finding him here.

Maybe, just as if they can smile again, maybe they'll get through this.

But then there's a sound of torment, and Finn's blood splatters onto her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha there you go! That's the first part of chapter four, sorry if it seems that I made some medical mistakes during the last part, I'm not too familiar with surgeries and procedures hehe! :)
> 
> I have a very busy week ahead so I don't think I'll be able to post the next (and final) chapter until Friday, or hopefully earlier! But definitely by the end of Friday.
> 
> Now sadly, the next chapter is the last chapter, but I already have plans for a sequel that I think I might write! What do you guys think will happen in the last chapter? It's going to be pretty intense!!
> 
> Happy Bellarking! xoxo


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, here it is! The last chapter of Nowhere Found! I'm so grateful for everyone who has read this story, and thank you so much for the support and lovely reviews you guys are truly awesome. Enjoy the last chapter! xo.

i.

His body is caked in blood and pain, but he's alive.

Finn's alive.

Clarke stares at the stain of red covering the surface of his skin, the reminder of bullets and guns and the inevitable possibility of death. The death that seems much too close, much too sweet and delicious for the destruction of humanity.

_We are humanity._

That's what Bellamy once said. That's what Bellamy once thought.

But humanity doesn't get other humans killed, doesn't allow other humans to suffer. Humanity doesn't exist anymore.

The only humanity that remains is the undying passion in Bellamy's eyes, or the rising determination in Octavia's expression. Humanity is the quickening pace of Raven as she scrubbed the ground of it's blood, as she hoped for her best friend, and for herself.

They're not humanity, but God did they want to be. God, do they try.

Clarke briefly closes her eyes, releasing the crimson cloth she clutches in her hand. The ringing of agonizing yells echoes in her ears, and she reaches forward, her fingers feeling the mattress of the cot Finn is resting on. The cot Charlotte once rested on.

Maybe if she were still here, still breathing, humanity would still have a chance.

"Clarke?"

She breathes deeply, the sound of his voice restoring the humanity that has been collapsing inside her chest.

Footsteps echo the medical bay, and she hears Raven whispering explanations and words of fear and grief as she walks alongside him. She hasn't been able to see Finn since Clarke performed his surgery, hasn't been able to see that he's alive.

His body is caked in blood and pain, but he's alive.

There's a halting of movement, and Clarke feels his hand on her shoulder, soft and gentle and lingering.

She turns to him, sees the intensity in his eyes that has captivated her for so long. The intensity that has calmed her and electrified her for so long. Raven stands beside him, a small smile gracing her face when she see's Finn, and she steps towards him, his body heaving with breath.

Bellamy lowers his head. "Are you okay?"

She nods. His gaze is heavy on hers, and it's enchanting, and it allows the thoughts of pain and death to escape her thoughts. Allows the feeling of blood on her hands to escape her awareness. He's like a God damn cure, like one of those fucking medicine bottles.

"We need to get him out of here," she looks at Raven, her hands threading through Finn's hair. "The areas near the Pit are surrounded by Mountain Men. We'll hide him in my cabin."

"What about mine?"

Clarke shakes her head. "Jaha is already suspicious of me spending time with you," she tells him. "We should spend a couple days apart, until he understands we don't have any plans."

She doesn't want to acknowledge the displeasure in his eyes.

She doesn't want to acknowledge the displeasure in hers.

Bellamy nods, his thumb rubbing along the blade of her shoulder before dropping his hand. The loss of touch awakens her senses, and she feels Finn's blood burning on her skin, soaking her with memories of gunshots and hangings and the death of humanity.

If that was humanity, the life before this, then it might not have been that great after all.

"Yeah, okay," Bellamy whispers, and his voice is stained with hesitation, "let's get him to your place then."

* * *

 

ii.

Bellamy stumbles through the opening of her cabin, his arms wrapping tightly around Finn's shoulders.

The hours of dawn are stretching amongst the early morning, the sun beginning to surface in the sky. The camp is rising with the familiar pressure of circumstances, the citizens of the East end longing for the end of the day, longing for the achievement of surviving another night.

Raven curses when she backs into the kitchen wall, her hands around Finn's ankles slipping from her grasp.

"Watch the stitches," Clarke growls, glaring at the droplets of blood that dampen the cloth around his waist.

Raven swallows thickly. "Fuck."

Clarke guides them towards the basement steps, supporting Finn's back as they carry him down the stairs. He gurgles in discomfort, and Raven curses again, the panic enhancing her gaze. Her eyes are so broken, so recognizable, and Clarke glances at Bellamy, remembering the pain that once etched his features.

God does she remember, it continues to haunt her memories.

It almost seemed impossible, the idea of arriving to her cabin without being noticed. Seemed impractical and dangerous and fatal. But it didn't matter, of course it didn't, because death is an endless possibility, and she'd rather risk her death for moments like this, when humanity doesn't seem so absent.

"Okay," Clarke whispers, "put him on the couch."

Bellamy grunts as he lifts Finn's body, settling him on the padded cushion. The wounded man winces as he shifts, a groan of discomfort releasing from his chapped lips, and Clarke positions him in an angle that will be less painful. Or at least manageable. Survivable.

She peels back his shirt and analyzes the stitches that carve into his side. With the right amount of medication and attention he'll be able okay, he'll be able to leave within the week. They'll have a chance.

She looks at Raven, see's her eyes well with tears at the sight of her friend, her brother.

Clarke clears her throat. "We'll let you two talk."

She glances at Bellamy and recognizes the agreement in his eyes. He tilts his head towards the stairs, and they begin to walk towards it until a weak hand wraps around Clarke's wrist, pulling her back.

When she turns to the person clinging onto her, Raven steps forward, her arms locking around Clarke's neck.

Clarke breathes deeply, allowing the feeling of satisfaction remain inside the burning of her chest. The burning that breathes the words of fire, of humanity and a song for the rebellion. She folds her arms around Raven's waist, hugging her in return, trusting her in return.

"Thank you," Raven presses her mouth to her ear, "thank you."

Clarke nods, but then the hum of an uprising begins to defeat when she see's the blood that surfaces her hands, and she's reminded of the chaos.

Chaos of the past, the present, the fucking future.

Humanity. Of course there will be no humanity. There'll be no humanity when there's no humans.

Clarke pulls away from her. "Anytime," she promises.

Anytime, because, inevitably, this will happen again, and it'll be worst, and there'll be more fatalities, more suffering and anguish. Anytime, because, in awareness, this war will never end, and people will keep dying, and next time, maybe next time it'll be the man beside her, or the girl in her arms, or maybe it'll be her.

Anytime, because, holy fuck, it's the time that doesn't exist. Time doesn't exist because time doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because there aren't any minutes, not enough hours in a day to spend with her loved ones.

There's not enough time to prepare for the destruction that's ahead.

Clarke swallows the lump that is rising in her throat, breathes the burning that is increasing in her heart. She looks at Raven, at Finn and his red skin, and turns away from them, doesn't even acknowledge the concern in Bellamy's eyes.

 _Fuck you, time_.

* * *

 

iii.

She's leaning against the living room wall when he finds her, the sadness not yet leaving her gaze.

Bellamy walks towards her, silent in his footsteps and in his pursuit to eliminate the misery from her expression. He leans on the wall, their elbows touching as they direct themselves to the window.

The window that displays the misery in the cabin, the misery in the Ark.

He's been challenging the future for so long, confronting the inequality that rests amongst society, and yet there is no change, no difference between the view from his cabin or the view from her cabin or the view from the privileged's cabins.

The view in the Ark is the Ark, that's the vision, that's how its supposed to be.

Only it's not. Only they don't know how to move forward with that disagreement, not with the pile of suffering that has extracted from their attempts.

 _We bear it together, Bellamy_.

"You saved his life."

Clarke shakes her head. "For how long?"

Bellamy winces. She shouldn't be thinking that, she shouldn't be doubting the life they have made for themselves, the life full of anguish and pain. Not her. He'll manage the suffering and the sorrow. Not her.

He'll bear it by himself, he will. Not her.

He steps in front of her, blocking her view of the window and the background of agony that surrounds them. She won't look at him, her eyes trained on the sleeve of his shirt, and he needs her to understand.

"Clarke - "

"You know, that's all this place is. How much time we have left." Her voice is strained with desperation, and she glances at him, tears moistening her gaze. "How much time we have with people."

 _Time_. That's an element he's never thought of, never counted on.

He doesn't respond, doesn't know how, just stares at the doubting lines that surface her forehead, at the ice of blue that deepens her eyes. The eyes he has grown to rely and cherish and discover.

God she's so beautiful, a mess of blonde and crimson.

She laughs without humour, and it shakes his chest. "Yeah, it makes sense, doesn't it?" He can hear the tears in her tone, and she attempts to swallow them. "Waiting for your time to come."

Bellamy steps forward, his fingers locking around her chin, her skin so soft and delicate under his touch. He tilts her face to his, urging her to find the commitment in his eyes, the words that display his security and loyalty for her.

And something else. That feeling that Octavia has accused him of, and he so bashfully denied.

No, he can definitely feel it now. "Life can be more than just waiting," he says, and it's almost a prayer.

She looks at him, her eyes shifting between the honestly in his gaze. Her breath is small when she exhales, and it uncurls his hair, fanning against his face. She's so close, and he can see the tears that fall around her, clear and unwavering.

His hand expands onto her cheek, dragging his fingertips from the bottom of her chin to the skin underneath her eyes. He wipes his thumb against the wetness around her expression, soothing and caressing and lingering.

Clarke breaths deep, covering his hand with hers. "Everyone I care about keeps dying," she whispers, so small and vulnerable. "Not you. Promise me that. _Please_."

He looks at her, all the beauty and grace filling the depths of her gaze. And she sounds broken, and she looks exhausted, and God does he want to promise her, wants to vow that he'll stay forever.

 _But_ \- "I can't," he tells her.

And that's when she breaks, the muffles of her sob releasing throughout the cabin. He aches, clutching his hand around her face and bringing her close, resting her head on his chest.

Her arms shake, and she fists her hands into his shirt, clinging to the material that shapes his body. Her lips press against him, cries vibrating and connecting them, and he holds her so damn close, because he can't let go.

And he's desperate, and so is she, because they need each other, tragically and beautifully.

* * *

 

iv.

It's been three days since the shooting of Finn Collins, three days since she last saw Bellamy and Octavia and the people she has adapted to, the people she has compromised due to the ongoing threat of Jaha's commands.

Whatever they may be, whenever they may occur.

Her cabin has been empty, filled with lost memories of lost people and individuals who aren't who they are anymore. She longs for the nights she spends in Octavia's room, or with Bellamy on their porch, and she slightly flinches.

 _Everyone I care about keeps dying. But not you. Promise me that_.

 _I can't_.

Clarke kneels beside the couch Finn is resting on, her fingers peeling the dampening hem of his shirt. He's been recovering to the common pace of his condition, his mouth consistently dry and his body aching in soreness. He seems content with the idea of living, and Clarke decides not to spoil it with her thoughts on time and humanity, decides not to bother.

"You've been awesome," he mumbles, and she can hear his hoarse tone.

Clarke removes the red bandage covering his side. "I'm doing my best," she replies. As if that makes a difference.

She reaches for the clean wrap in front of her, pasting it along his wound. He winces slightly, jerky, exhaling a deep breath when she pads the material to his skin. His teeth bite on the bottom of his lip, eyes briefly closing.

"If you could just - "

He's interrupted by the sound that muffles above them. Clarke curses, recognizing the knocking on her front door, and she finishes securing the bandage on his body before covering his shirt over it.

She lifts herself off the ground. "I'll be right back."

Her footsteps are light when she walks up the stairs, silently closing the door behind her. She wipes hastily at her hands as the knocking increases, repeats, and she reaches for the door knob, pulling it open.

A Mountain Men guard stands on her front porch. Of fucking course.

"Miss. Griffin."

Clarke nods. "That's me," she murmurs.

The guard smirks, and she wonders what stories have been told about her, how she was almost raped, how she should have died along with her mother. She clenches her hands into fists, resisting the urge to punch the grin off his face.

"Of course it is," he says. He rests his fingers around the weapon at his belt. "There's a mandatory meeting in the camp square."

Clarke tenses. Her grip on the door knob tightens, muscles contracting, and she forces a breath from her chest, forces the panic from her eyes. She longs for the person she hasn't been able to stop thinking of, longs to be securely wrapped in his arms again.

She steps back. "I'll grab my coat."

"Right now."

She thinks of Finn, resting on the couch in her basement, sore and motionless. Thinks of the stitches that need to be cleaned, of the water on the table he isn't able to reach himself. Fuck.

Clarke nods, crossing over the threshold. "Sure," she mumbles.

He turns, still gripping the gun at his side as he walks down her porch steps, Clarke following closely behind. She glances at the people who live nearby as they are escorted as well, their expressions displaying unanswered questions, wondering what the next announcement is.

Clarke swallows thickly. _Please don't let it be time_.

There's a cluster of crowds when they arrive at the camp square, Mountain Men guards in more places than previously presented, surrounding the perimeter, weapons in their grasp.

She pauses when she notices the line of guards patting down citizens before they enter the square, their hands roughly feeling their pockets and clothes. Searching, for anything, something, and it enhances the alarm in her chest.

The guard beside her pushes her forward. "Let's go," he growls.

Clarke walks to the barrier of Mountain Men, and the one guard smirks at her before touching her shoulders, her sides, her hips. She closes her eyes, tries not to think of the dark alley and the hands of those who touched her then, tries not to think of the death that followed those actions.

"Clear."

The guard releases her, pushing her into the camp square. She tries to exhale the tension that occupies her body, tries to keep her composure as people continue to fill the square, confused and wondering.

Her eyes scan the crowd, looking for a familiar mess of brown hair, or a familiar expression that holds passion and ferocity. A citizen bumps into her as he enters the square, and she wants to apologize, but it's caught in her throat.

She can't form words. She needs Bellamy. Fuck, she needs him.

The buzzing of the crowd begins to lower when a man walks onto the stage of the execution stand, Jaha, his eyes no longer seeking the acceptance of his citizens, replaced with the genuine darkness of his soul.

Several guards accompany him on stage, and they're surrounded, men with guns all around them.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Ark," Jaha begins, and he's slurring, and he's hiding something. "I have unfortunate news to share with you."

Clarke exhales deeply. She watches the reaction of the people nearby, and she longs for those intense eyes to comfort her, to tell her everything is going to be okay, that everything will be alright.

"There has been a rising amount of attacks in recent camps, ours included. These attacks, as we have learned, have been organized by the Grounders, The Ark's rebellion group."

Clarke breathes in. _Everything is going to be okay_. She breathes out. _Everything will be alright_.

"We must prevent this," he says, and there's a murmur of whispers in the crowd now. "And to prevent this, we must eliminate the threat."

Bellamy. Bellamy, please be okay, please be alright.

There's a rustle of movement on the stage, a gasping that shocks the people that surround the square. Mountain Men guards change their positions, weapons raised, and Jaha draws a gun from the side of his pants.

He points it at the crowd.

"May we meet again."

And fires the first shot.

* * *

 

v.

Bellamy lunges towards Octavia, pulling her to the ground as bullets tear through the open sky.

His body impacts with the cracking of concrete, and he hears Octavia cry out, hears the chaos of screaming and gunshots surrounding them. Bodies collapse onto the ground around him, bleeding and corpses.

His chest feels tight, because there's that person who isn't beside him, who is lost in the crowd.

Fuck. _Clarke_.

Another figure falls beside him, and _God_ she has to be okay.

"Bellamy," Octavia rasps from beneath him.

He grunts, searching the perimeter of the camp square in preparation of finding an opening. Guards stand at the lines, weapons raised and pumping, and he curses, they're fucking surrounded.

"Bellamy," Octavia repeats, gripping his collar and directing his gaze to a clutter of guards nearby, "we have to."

He nods slowly, understanding.

He grabs her shoulders, lifting her from the ground and pulling her behind him. He lowers their bodies, crouching amongst the scatter of corpses around them, and they run, run so damn fast and vicious.

His eyes scan the crowd for a familiar strand of blonde hair, and his feet feel heavier when he doesn't find her.

Bellamy pushes Octavia against the wall of a corner, their breath strong and short. He swallows the thick emotion of panic that clogs his throat, tries not to think of the screams of help, the sobbing of children.

He narrows his glare on the Mountain Men standing in front of their corner, only four guards maintaining the opening.

"Bellamy."

He turns at the additional noise, gaze landing on Lincoln, Raven and Wick, their skin covered with blood.

"Oh, God," Octavia bawls, and she clutches Lincoln towards her in a tightening hug, her arms locking around his neck. He returns the sentiment, embracing her with a despair that settles in Bellamy's chest.

He glances at Raven and Wick. "Did you see - "

"No," Raven answers, and the despair morphs into something much more dangerous, "we were on the south side, they're beginning to fight back."

Octavia pulls away from Lincoln. "What do you mean?"

"We saw some citizens get a hold of a guard. They beat him to death."

Bellamy sighs. He rubs his fingers against his temple, the ringing of bullets and death occupying his mind. That feeling he's had for so long, the one that includes Clarke and a life that can never happen, breaks painfully inside his chest.

She has to be okay. She has to be alive.

"Hey," Octavia touches his arm, "we can do this."

He nods, a determination rising in his eyes. His sister, his responsibility.

He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss on her forehead, her skin hot with fire and ambition. He turns to the others, bloody and doubtful, acknowledges them with a contrasting expression.

"What's the plan, boss?" Wick questions.

Bellamy breathes deeply, gesturing to the nearby guards.

"We kill them."

* * *

 

vi.

Clarke screams, a painful and agonizing cry.

Her head slams against the concrete, a sharp discomfort rising in her eyes. She blinks, rapid and fast, the pressure of the body above her pinning her hands to the ground.

"You stupid bitch," the guard snarls, and blood drips from his mouth onto her face, "stay fucking - "

There's a gunshot, close to her ears, and the guard's expression begins to melt with a bullet hole through his forehead. She gasps, releasing her hands from his grip and pushing him away from her, rolling to the side.

He collapses beside her, a motionless corpse.

"Oh, thank God."

Clarke glances at the two figures standing in front of her, the familiar look of mischievous resting on their features. Jasper holds a gun on his shoulders, Monty releasing a smile from beside him.

"You're a hard girl to locate," Monty hisses, and he reaches for her hand, pulling her upward, "you know that?"

There's a round of gunshots in the distance, and Jasper lowers himself, pushing Clarke behind him. He steadies the gun in his hand, the words Mountain Men scribbled across it, and sends bullets to a remaining guard nearby.

The guard falls, and Jasper turns to them with a smirk.

Clarke takes a shuttering breath. "Have you seen - "

"We haven't," Monty says, and he pulls her from the range of the camp square, from the bodies that pile around them. "But it's Bellamy, I'm sure he's fine."

Clarke nods, though the answer doesn't decrease the misery that clutches her chest. There's so much death and destruction that surrounds her, so much hopelessness that fills her veins, but he has to be okay, because if he isn't, than she never will be.

"Come on. We need to get out of here."

Monty clings onto her hand, Jasper behind them as he raises his gun, inspecting the chaos around them. The chaos that has erupted from this massacre, a genocide, an extinction of the citizens of the Ark.

A mere default in humanity, a method to prevent the defeat in the council.

There's an echo of shrieking when they approach the streets of the camp. Mountain Men enter houses and murder the people who are hiding in them, dragging them onto their porch and slitting their throats, slitting their husband's throats and their wive's throats and their children's throats.

"Fuck," Clarke whispers.

Monty clenches his fingers around hers, tight and tense, and pulls her to the side. He nods at Jasper, their eyes locking in an understandable thought, and Jasper lowers his gun, pointing to a nearby store.

"We'll stay in there for now," he says as they run towards it, "we'll see what happens."

The bell above them rings with alarm as they enter the store, the room occupied with books and shelves and stories filled with magical happy endings. There's a scatter of movement, and Jasper curses, raising his weapon at the figure that emerges from the shadows.

The frame of his body is built and strong, a gun also placed in his firm fingers. Blood soaks the material of his shirt, and then she see's his eyes, oh God those eyes. Those damn eyes.

Clarke releases a sound of relief and hope and disbelief and fuck.

"Bellamy."

He blinks, lowers his gun, and it's him, it's really him.

Clarke whimpers, and she rushes towards him, her hair attaching to the dirt on her face as she approaches him. He stumbles backwards when she lunges at him, wrapping herself in his arms, hands tight around the base of his neck.

He's hesitant, questions whether she's really there, in his hold, before returning the embrace. He presses his lips to the strands of hair that fall over her face, whispering prayers and comfort and concern.

She doesn't know how, but he made it, maybe they can still make it.

There's a sound of agony erupting from the room, and Bellamy pulls back, his hands still on her waist. He briefly closes his eyes, and Clarke looks at Monty and Jasper crowding around someone against a bookshelf; Raven, Wick and Lincoln maintaining the same expression of worry.

Clarke steps forward, her faith shattering when she see's Octavia, a bullet in her thigh.

"Oh my God."

Clarke clutches her fingers around Bellamy's shoulder as she stumbles towards them, a mess of blood and misery, much like the crowd outside these walls. She kneels beside Octavia, notices the small hint of surprise in her expression at the sight of her.

"Hey," Octavia grunts, sweat dripping down her forehead, "you're alive."

Clarke shakes her head. "You better stay alive."

Octavia chuckles, and blood splutters from her lips. She raises her hand, gesturing her thumb at her before lowering them. Lincoln reaches forward to wipe at the red stain that wets her chin.

Clarke sighs. She touches the bullet hole in her leg, and Octavia winces, her muscles twitching. Her fingers skim her pants, feeling the back of her thigh, but there's no exit hole.

The bullet's still in there.

Clarke bites on her bottom lip, standing. She glances at Bellamy behind her, his arms crossing over her chest, tense and tight. She grabs his elbow, pulling him away from the group and behind another book shelf.

"Can she walk?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "I can carry her," he whispers, and his voice is soothing and rough, "if that's what it comes to."

Clarke nods. She breathes deeply, her fingers gripping the dampening material of his shirt. There's so much blood and dirt on him, and she wonders if it's his, wonders how many guards he had to kill. Wonders if he's thinking how many guards she had to kill.

She swallows thickly. She won't allow herself be responsible for another person's death.

"Okay," she whispers, and he's looking at her with those eyes again and it weakens her. "I need you to go to the bunker, grab guns and medicine, and I'll go get Finn. We meet outside the wall."

Bellamy stares at her, the intensity in his gaze refusing for her to let go, for her to look away. His jaw flexes, bones tight and crunching in contrast, and he pulls her closer, hands on her shoulders.

"No."

Clarke shakes her head. "Bellamy - "

"I'm coming with you."

"Don't you dare," she hisses, and her voice is stern. "Stay with your sister. Lead them outside."

Bellamy releases a noise of longing, the sound striking a painful neglect in her chest. He holds her tighter, his hands expanding so his thumb is pressing against the sides of her neck, caressing the surface of her skin.

His tone is unsteady. "Don't go," he pleads.

His expression is so broken, so sincere, that she almost complies.

 _Almost_.

"We don't leave people behind."

Bellamy breathes deeply, and God he's making this so damn hard, so much harder than she intends for this to be, because he's looking so glorious and beautiful in all his vulnerability that it almost breaks her.

He closes his eyes. "Griffin . . . "

She needs to say something, something that will make him understand. Something that will make him stop making her feel so desperate and defenceless.

"Octavia needs you."

Bellamy shakes his head. His fingers glide against her neck, leaving trails of heat on her skin as he cups her face in his hands. She wants to move, wants to pull away, because he's making her weak when he's always made her strong, and this feeling, whatever it is, it can't exist in this world.

He caresses her cheeks, soft and gentle in contrast to the longing in his voice.

" _I_ need you."

Clarke's breath hitches, and she swallows the thickness building in his throat. She thinks of her father, her mother and Charlotte, thinks of the faces they lost in the rebellion.

And then she looks at the face in front of hers, and yeah, God she needs him too.

But she doesn't tell him that, because they're in the middle of a war, and his sister is bleeding a couple shelves behind them, and love can't exist in this world.

Yeah. That odd feeling. Love.

She leans forward, trying to keep her voice strong. "I'll meet you there," she tells him.

Bellamy stares at her, the instability visible in his gaze. He's looking at her like she's the only thing in the world, like he might feel the same way, and she pulls away from him, removing his hands from her face.

 _Let me go_.

Clarke steps away from him, glancing at the desperation in his expression before turning from him. Her heart feels heavy, her ears ringing with the continuing of gunshots, and she tries to not to think of the death and destruction that awaits her.

The death and destruction that awaits Finn. But she has to try.

Because that's what humanity is, that's what the rebellion is.

 _Try_.

She walks towards the door, swallowing the tense buildup in her throat, blinking the tears from her eyes, and then there's a mess of hair and hands and someone is gripping her elbow, turning her around.

Clarke catches a glimpse of Bellamy's expression, skin flushed and burning.

"Bellamy - "

He cups her face in his hands, and presses his lips against hers.

There's a shiver, a low vibration that swells in her chest as he holds her close, fingers clutching at the blonde strands of her hair. He feels so warm, so safe and hopeful, feels like home.

 _Bellamy_.

Clarke stretches onto her toes, kissing him back with the same passion and intensity that blazes the fire in his eyes. Her mouth moves roughly against his, longing, her arms wrapping around his shoulders.

He grunts, stepping forward and pinning her between the bookshelf and his body. His skin is taunt with intimacy, and she notices the fear on his lips, the fear that this might be the last time, the only time.

 _Her Bellamy_.

She feels his thumb wipe at the wetness that stains her cheeks, and she sighs, her lips parting from his. He leans his forehead against hers, breathing her in and exhaling her out, like she's the cure and the sickness.

Because there's chaos around them, and love can't exist in this world.

And when it can, it's only in moments like this, moments of fear and grief, but she clings to him anyway, because he is humanity, and he is the rebellion.

He is home.

"I'll see you soon," she says, but she doesn't promise.

And this time, when she turns from him, she doesn't look back, and he doesn't stop her.

Because, tragically, like the cabins around them, homes can be destroyed.

* * *

 

vii.

His lips are a memory, still on hers, when she enters her cabin, her body tumbling from the window in her kitchen.

Clarke groans when she balances herself on the ground, sweat dampening her skin from the adrenaline, from the gunshots and explosions she escaped. There's an echo of cries that surrounds the nearby houses, and she hears the screaming of children, the desperation in the mother's voice to spare them.

 _Fuck_.

She thinks of Bellamy, thinks of the passion in his kiss, the despair in his eyes.

She has to make it, has to return to him.

Clarke pushes herself forward, legs burning from the endless amount of running. She feels weak, almost crashing, but there's the beat of his name, _Bellamy Bellamy Bellamy_ , and she doesn't give in.

She stumbles down the stairs, hands clinging to the railing to keep her upright. There's still the pounding in her head, the blood on her skin, the bullet in Octavia's thigh, and fuck she has to make it.

"Clarke."

She exhales deep when she see's Finn, his body slumping on the couch. There's a panic in his eyes, a terror that is reflecting hers, and she rushes to him, lifting him to sit upwards on the couch.

"They're killing us," she tells him, breathless, "we're going to meet Bellamy outside the walls, try to - "

There's a scream, a sound of urgency in Finn's voice, and a pain sparks her skull.

Then everything goes black.

* * *

 

viii.

"We need to go. _Now_."

Bellamy stands on the weary grass of the hill, his hands clutching the weapons and aid kits from the bunker. His body is stained with additional blood, additional deaths from the guards, from the citizens that got in their way.

He stares at the opening of the wall that surrounds the camp, the wall that has been told to never cross, the wall that has inspired ghosts and horror stories of the outside.

Wick touches his shoulder. " _Bellamy_."

Bellamy shifts, shaking his hand from his frame. There's a hum of shrieking, bullets and blood scattered on the ground that expands inside the Ark. Smoke rises from cabins, fire attaching itself to the nearest object, the nearest person.

They failed them. Failed everyone.

But then there's a pounding in her chest, and he can't fail her.

_Clarke Clarke Clarke . . ._

Raven steps forward. "We can't wait for her," she hisses, "if we want to live - "

"No."

_Clarke Clarke Clarke._

Where the fuck are you?

There's a tightening in his chest, a desperate fear that clenches his fists and buries the passion in his glare, replaces it with fury and rage. He failed them, failed everyone, failed her. _Fuck_.

"Bellamy," Lincoln's voice is soft and gentle, and there's a wailing from the girl in his arms, crushing his bones and spirit, "we need to get Octavia somewhere safe, wait further into the trees. Clarke will find us."

Bellamy turns to him, see's his sister, pale and drenching in agony.

Dying.

He can't fail her.

 _Clarke Clarke Clarke_.

 _Octavia Octavia Octavia_.

"Clarke will find us," Jasper and Monty agree, "she'll be okay."

There's a sensation of loss, a feeling of grief and desperation that clenches his throat, and he looks back at the camp, tries to surprise the tears that prickle his eyes. Piles of corpses line the streets, young and old and privileged and unprivlidged.

He tried, he really did fucking try.

 _God, I'm so sorry_.

There's another piercing cry from Octavia, and he closes his eyes. His sister, his responsibility.

Hesitant, he stumbles from the wall, his cheeks wet with tears and blood, his lips still stinging with Clarke's kiss, with the sweetness and taste of her. She nods at Lincoln, and he rushes further into the woods, further away from camp.

 _Clarke Clarke Clarke_.

 _Please come back to me_.

* * *

 

ix.

When she opens her eyes, it's almost too dark to see.

The walls that surround her are black, painted with dread, an uneasiness that settles in her chest, tightens her muscles. She feels the coolness of concrete beneath her, and she lifts herself onto her elbows.

An agony strikes her head. _Shit_.

Clarke blinks the blur from her eyes. There's a limit of light that sheds from an opening in the ceiling, but there's no lamps, no torches or brightness, just the dullness of the walls.

She see's bars, long and thick, and she realizes she's in a cell.

A fucking prison cell.

Clarke releases a sound of panic, scanning the room that traps her. She pushes herself onto her knees, feels the length of new clothes, a shirt and pants, see's stitches that cover the small wounds on her hands.

What the fuck?

She swallows the suspicion in her throat, lungs still husky from the smoke and gun powder. She crawls towards the bars, clinging to the metal as she stands, and she feels dizzy, feels light.

Her eyes narrow in the dark, and she looks at the cell in front of hers, notices a familiar flop of brown hair.

"Finn."

He glances at her, and he looks pale, looks weak.

"Finn," she whispers, "are you okay?"

He doesn't answer, doesn't move, his body slumping against the wall in his cell. He reaches his hand through a small opening in the bars, directs his finger towards the white sign that hands from the ceiling.

She strains her gaze onto the board.

 _Mount Weather_.

 _Prisoner Of War Facility_.

Clarke shakes her head, a burning panic in her eyes. She clenches onto the bars, cold metal against her skin, cold metal against the cuts and bruises on her body.

Well, _shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnnd that's the end of the first instalment of Nowhere Found! What did you guys think?!
> 
> By the way, I'm sorry for not posting on Friday like I said, but it was Easter weekend and a very busy week and things got out of hand, so I apologize! And I'm sorry for the cliffhanger, but I can promise you this is not the end of Clarke and Bellamy romance, and they will find each other again in the second installment don't you worry :)
> 
> Although I have plans for a sequel, I am going to write a different story next, called Drink To That, which is a Bellamy/Clarke romance, comedy, drama about them dealing with alcoholism. The first chapter of that story should be up within the month and I'm really excited for it and I hope you are as well:)
> 
> As for the second instalment of Nowhere Found, I will be writing it after I'm done Drink To That, so don't worry, I won't forget about it, I'm just taking a break to write some lighter and more fun material :)
> 
> Anyways, I hope you guys are having an amazing Easter holiday! Eat like kings, and thank you so much to everyone who read this story, you guys are truly awesome.
> 
> Drink To That will be up soon, thanks so much!
> 
> Happy Bellarking, xoxo.


	7. Nowhere Found II: I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! I decided to write the Nowhere Found sequel first before I moved on with any other stories. Hehe I hope you guys are okay with it! So here is the first chapter to the sequel of Nowhere Found! I really hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> (Also, someone asked if Jaha planned to kill the privileged, and yes he did. His idea was to rid the population of the Ark to eliminate any and every threat of a rebellion. Hope that clears everything up! )

**Nowhere Found II**

i.

The wall surrounding the the Ark gleams in the warmth of the moonlight, darkness emerging from the night sky.

Her mother's hands are soft on her shoulders, pulling her closer in her embrace. She traces her fingers along Clarke's skin, golden strands of fair framing her face, so innocent and gentle.

"Mom," Clarke lifts her face towards her mother, curious eyes compelled with fascination, "what do you think is out there?"

Abby smiles, turning to the man beside her. There's been so many stories, so many tales and rumours of life past the wall, all of which have been coaxed in danger. Danger of the unknown and of the savaged, of those who are lost in the woods that entangle and darken their soul.

Jake shakes his head, looking at his wife. Clarke's too young to be exposed to those stories of terror.

"Nobody really knows," Jake answers, and her expression deems one of unsatisfactory. He leans forward, pressing his lips against his lips against his daughter's ear. "But you don't have to worry about that stuff."

Clarke shrugs her shoulders, dough-eyed and precious, so young and kind. "Why not?"

Jake sighs. Her gaze is unwavering, releasing an overwhelming amount of passion that swarms in his chest. He thinks of the rebellion, of the possibility of the future, the future for his daughter, for her to witness a beautiful change.

And he has to be there. Abby has to be there. _For his little girl_.

"Because we'll always be here, to protect you. You know that, right?"

Clarke smiles, an image of her mother. "I know."

Jake chuckles as he presses a kiss to her ear, tender skin under his lips. She's so small, though a fire grows inside her, a fire he will help her control and maintain, help her use against those who refuse her security and protection. His little, little girl.

Abby rubs her hands along her daughter's arms, and they sit on the porch, like they always do, like they always will do, a family. They gaze at the wall that surrounds them, the wall that neither of them, hopefully, will ever have to pass.

A wall that neither of them will have to run to, to escape to.

He'll make a change, he will. He'll make it better.

_Don't worry Clarke, you're going to make it._

* * *

 

ii.

The metal is crisp with blood, her fingers clinging to the bars as the darkness overwhelms her cell.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.

Clarke grips the bars, shaking them violently in her grasp, desperate and frantic. There's no weakness, no possibility of escape, but there has to be. There has to be because Finn is still wounded from his gunshot, and she has a responsibility to him, to get them out.

She has a responsibility to Bellamy.

 _Bellamy_.

"Are they going to kill us?"

Clarke breathes deeply. The outline of Finn's body is apparent in the black settlement of their cells. He seems weak, slumping against the wall of his bars, hand on his stomach and hair damp with sweat.

She doesn't know if they'll die, doesn't know if they're already dead, but he can't know that, and she can't think that.

We're going to make it.

"No," Clarke whispers, and her tone is hoarse from the smoke. "We'll get out of here. Bellamy will - "

Finn scoffs. "Bellamy's dead."

Clarke clutches the bars. She swallows the building thickness in her throat, the increasing panic in her chest. The Ark was surrounded by chaos, by weapons and death and suffering. But it's Bellamy, Bellamy Blake, the man who saved them all.

She thinks of his lips, and his eyes, the blood that stained his skin.

Bellamy. _Bellamy_.

Her breath falters, and her heart tightens, but she refuses to give up.

"We don't know that," she murmurs.

Finn laughs without humour, and the sound sends a shiver of indifference through her core. He shakes his head, and his mouth gurgles with blood, with the injury of never recovering, the injury of defeat.

"What have we done?" he questions, and she wonders if he's speaking to her or himself, "what have we fucking done? It wasn't worth it."

Clarke bends her head. "Shut up, Finn."

"All those people, all those _dead_ people, all because we couldn't - "

Clarke releases a vibrant hiss, her fingers tightening around the metal. She bites on her bottom lip, teeth digging her skin, and kicks at the bars that trap her, the bars that keep her away from him.

"Shut the fuck up," she growls, "we tried."

They tried, they fucking tried, and they didn't do this. This isn't her fault. God, this can't be her fault.

It'll be okay, she'll find Bellamy and they'll be okay.

But Finn won't stop speaking of the memories, of the images of lifeless bodies and innocent corpses. He won't stop fucking talking and she can't make him stop, can't make him fucking stop, and the only option she has is to listen to him.

"Tried?" His mocking chuckle fills the atmosphere. "We lost. We're not going to make it."

Clarke whimpers. She wants Bellamy, she needs Bellamy. Her body weakens against the bars, and she collapses, skin sliding along the cold metal. She buries herself into the wall, her head in her hands and her tears on her cheeks.

She cries into her fingers, silent and vulnerable. There's a breaking of brightness from the opening in the ceiling, and she can see the white sign, the words of _Mount Weather_ , the words of suspicion.

She sighs, lowering her forehead against the bars and repeating the statements in her head.

 _They're not going to kill them, Bellamy's not dead_.

_This isn't her fault._

* * *

 

iii.

There's so much fucking blood.

The grass beneath them is damp with crimson, melting with the wound that appears in Octavia's thigh. Her fingers clutch at Lincoln's sleeve, her eyes fading with unconsciousness, mouth parting with agony, and there's so much fucking blood.

"Holy shit," Jasper mumbles, "holy _shit_."

Octavia screams, a piercing shriek that echoes throughout the woods. The smoke of the Ark continues to blur the night sky, the reminder of death and suffering and her, and Bellamy leans forward, his hands pushing pressure on Octavia's leg.

_He can't lose her too._

"Octavia," Bellamy hisses, voice taunt and thick, "come on. Come _on_."

His fingers press soothing rhythms against her skin as Raven operates on her, her slick fingers sliding between the opening in her flesh. She discards the bullet fragments buried inside, the repeating sound of metal, the repeating memory of gunshots.

Gunshots. His ears continue to ring with gunshots and screaming, of Octavia's plea to leave her, of Clarke's words to return to him.

_Clarke Clarke Clarke_

_Octavia Octavia Octavia_

There's blood _everywhere_.

"Okay," Raven murmurs, and she sounds fucking exhausted, "we almost got it."

Bellamy nods, rigid and tense. He looks at his sister, at the red that splatters her hair, and he didn't want this, didn't expect this. When he thought of the rebellion, of the changes it would bring, he didn't imagine this.

He didn't imagine the aching in his chest, the aching that is filled with grief instead of victory, of loss instead of triumph. He didn't imagine the broken feeling inside him, the ghost of her lips on his, so fatal and burning and present.

And it hurts. And he needs her.

 _Clarke_.

There's a hissing of relief as Raven removes the final fragment from Octavia's thigh, and she gasps, directing the others to bandage her and stop the blood flow. Lincoln tears the hem of his shirt and wraps it around her leg, pulling her body close against him.

"I got you. I got you."

Bellamy swallows thickly at their embrace, notices the desperation in their expressions. Lincoln's arms lock around her waist as Monty continues to put pressure on her thigh, and there's so much fucking blood, endless amounts, but she'll be okay, she always is.

A silence follows her as she sleeps, and it only dawns on them then, the realization of where they are, of what they just came from. They don't know if there's any other survivors, if anyone else made it past the walls. Doesn't know where Jaha is, or what they've accomplishment. Don't know how they're going to survive.

But they know that they have to.

The smoke is merely visible in the sky, and he thinks of blonde hair and soft lips, of blue and fulfilling eyes.

_Clarke Clarke Clarke._

_Come home._

* * *

 

iv.

Her body is sore as she leans against the wall of her cell.

There's bruises on her legs and wounds on her arms, healing under the recovery provided by the people who captured them. Whoever the hell they are, whatever the hell they want.

She doesn't get it. Doesn't understand why they aren't dead yet.

They've been trapped inside these damn cells for hours, maybe more, maybe less. No food, or water, but she's healed. They haven't fed them or released them, but they healed them.

Clarke folds her arms across her chest and rests her forehead on her knees. She breathes in. _They're not going to kill them, Bellamy's not dead_. Breathes out. _This isn't her fault_.

She breathes in and out, tries to think of the good and the hope, but it doesn't matter, because all of her thoughts are filled with strong arms and passionate eyes.

They're filled with home. She wants to go home.

There's a creaking of protest, and Clarke looks up, her chest increasing in alarm. An additional brightness sheds from the opening of a door, and three men walk through it, and they look so familiar, with their suits and patterns of blood.

Words scribble their uniform. _Mountain Men_.

 _Fuck_.

Clarke releases a shuddering breath, her fingers clawing at the skin of her arms. The Mountain Men guards glance at her, and glance at Finn, glance at her again. Crimson marks cover their suits, replacing their white attire with a display of red.

She swallows thickly. So much blood.

One of the guards, the tallest of them, points a finger towards Finn.

"Take the boy."

 _No_.

Clarke scrambles to her feet, her muscles aching from the pressure. She shakes her head, clutching the bars and slamming her hands against the metal. Not him. Take her. Take her instead.

"Stop!" She cries out, rattling the bars. "What are you doing?"

The guards enter Finn's cell, responding in action as they grip Finn's arms and pull him to his feet. He hisses, touching his side, and torment portrays his expression. A guard grabs his hands and pull them behind his back, dragging him out of the cell.

"Stop! He's hurt! He's _fucking_ _hurt!"_

Clarke sobs, her muscles responding in contrast as she pushes herself against the bars. She curses, her eyes willing with tears as the three guards walk towards the door they entered from, only this time with Finn in their grasp, his head hanging forward.

He looks so weak. Looks like giving up.

"Please." She tries once more, though there's fear in her voice. "Please don't do this."

The door opens, and the four men exit, disappearing into a hallway. She hears the echo of yelling before the door can close, and she clings to the the bars, her tears dripping along the metal.

What has she led them to?

* * *

 

v.

Bellamy can't fucking sleep.

The smoke that has erupted from the burning of the camp has ceased, littering the night sky with only memories of corpses and crisped remains. There's a smell, a smell of death that reaches the forest, and he closes his eyes.

And all he sees is red.

Red and blonde hair. Red and blue eyes. Red and Clarke, and Octavia, and everyone else he's tried to protect.

All the people he's failed to protect.

There's a rustle of footsteps behind him, and Bellamy turns towards the sound, his eyes landing on Lincoln in the darkness. He looks tired, Octavia's blood staining his skin, and he see's the reflection of worry in his gaze.

Bellamy clears his throat, redirecting his body in the direction of the camp. He feels the grass beneath him, and it's soft, and he's never really felt grass before. But he would give anything to never feel this grass. Give anything to see _her_.

Lincoln sits beside him on the hill, the muttering of their people sleeping behind them.

"Can't sleep?"

Bellamy shrugs. "Somebody has to stay up anyways."

Lincoln nods. He looks at the remaining members of the rebellion, their expressions frozen in grief and terror as they lie amongst the grass. Octavia wraps her arms around the jacket covering her body, her leg tightly wounded with bandages.

Bellamy exhales deeply. "How is she?"

"She'll live," Lincoln tells him, but his answer doesn't satisfy him. "And you?"

Bellamy doesn't respond. He rips at the grass that caresses his fingertips, uprooting them from the earth, stealing them from their home, from where they belong. He doesn't know where he belongs, where he should be, but he does know who should be with him.

There's a blur of red when he thinks of her again, but he doesn't care.

"We should keep heading South. I know we lost a lot of people, but - "

Bellamy shakes his head. "Maybe not all of them."

 _Maybe not her_.

Lincoln swallows thickly. He nods, his knuckles clenching in the darkness, blood visible on his skin. He looks up at the remaining cabins in the distance of the camp, the cabins that didn't burn down with the families inside them.

He glances at Bellamy, eyes fierce in alarm. "When Octavia gets better, we'll search the camp."

Bellamy nods.

_Maybe not her._

_Clarke Clarke Clarke_.

* * *

 

vi.

Octavia mutters a sequence of words as she rolls her head on the grass, eyes closed in sleep. She looks so discomforting, masking the expression she would wear when she had a nightmare, when she would wake up screaming and run into her brother's arms.

Bellamy leans forward and brushes a strand of damp hair from her face. "O," he whispers, voice matching the huskiness, "wake up."

There's a rustle and a soft whimper as Octavia opens her eyes, her breathing laboured in her chest. She sits up quickly and grabs Bellamy's collar, her gaze wild as panic fills her vision. She tightens her fingers around the material, and the pain hasn't left her features.

"Hey," he coos, "it's just a nightmare. You're okay."

Octavia swallows thickly, realization dawning on her as she glances at her grip around his shirt. She blinks, her tongue lining her lips as she sighs, releasing her hold on him.

She shakes her head. "It wasn't a nightmare."

Bellamy understands. Reality is their nightmare. Realities and nightmares are the same fucking thing.

Octavia coughs, and he grasps her shoulders to steady her. She's weak against him, and he lowers her onto the grass, placing the jacket over her body. She looks uneasy, permanently distraught, and he glances at the bandage around her leg.

"Does it hurt?"

She hums. "Like a bitch. But it'll heal. Clarke told me that - " She stops, looking away from him. "It'll heal."

Bellamy nods, and he thinks that's the first time he's heard her name aloud, not in his thoughts, or in his dreams, but the soft whisper of her name that he would call every day. He didn't know something so gentle could hurt so fucking much.

He exhales deeply. "That's good."

Octavia turns to him, her gaze landing on his through the darkness. There's an impending amount of determination in her eyes, filled with ice and frustration, and he wants to join her, wants to match her retaliation, but he doesn't feel anything. He feels so God damn empty.

 _Clarke. Don't fucking leave yet_.

"No one has talked about it yet, you know," Octavia hisses, and there's that anger again, there's that fire. "No one has talked about what happened."

Bellamy wraps his arms around his knees. "There's nothing to say."

Octavia huffs a noise of disbelief. She props herself onto her elbows, staring at him with her wild gaze, the gaze that has heightened and calmed him for so many damn years. Brown eyes, blue eyes, Octavia, Clarke. There's a rhythm in his chest now.

"All of those people - " She shakes her head, fingers clutching the grass. "You heard Jaha before . . . we weren't the only camp with a rebellion. We can find others."

Bellamy doesn't respond. He's thought about it, of course he has. He's thought about the idea of a rebellion outside their camp since the Mountain Men first arrived at the Ark. There is a chance, he knows that, but he can't -

"Clarke is still out there you know."

Bellamy tightens his jaw. "Octavia - "

"It's _Clarke_ ," she presses, and there's that name again, there's that pain in his heart again. "She made it. We'll find her."

There's a humming in the woods that thickens the silence amongst them, tense and building and uncontrollable. He glances at Lincoln, his back facing them as he watches the camp on the hillside, and he begins to feel that Blake fire, begins to remember that Blake passion.

He looks at his sister. "And if we don't?"

Octavia shrugs, biting on her bruised lip.

"Then she'll find us."

Bellamy nods, and he lowers himself onto the ground, his arm wrapping around Octavia's shoulders as she nuzzles her face into the crook of his neck. There's that rhythm in his chest again, the two names of his heart, and it heightens with the fire and the passion, it heightens with love.

He closes his eyes, and the image of blonde hair and fare skin is the last thing he sees before he succumbs to his exhaustion.

* * *

 

vii.

She hates this cell. She fucking hates this cell.

Clarke curses as she slams her hand against the bars that surround her, the impact of metal echoing throughout the chambers. Her skin trembles, body shaking of rage, and she grips the material of her shirt, squeezes it until her fingers cramp.

She wants to go home. She needs to go home.

Clarke closes her eyes, muscles aching under the pressure of her grasp.

 _They're not going to kill them, Bellamy's not dead_.

 _This isn't her fault_.

But, oh God, she's so fucking scared.

There's a creaking of cement as the door from the hallway opens in protest. Clarke lifts herself from the ground, her eyes straining to see in the darkness, eyes straining to find the outline of Finn, to see if he's unharmed.

There's a shadow that casts among the men walking in, and Clarke cups her mouth with her hands.

"What the fuck did you do?"

The Mountain Men guards turn away from her as they lead Finn to his cell, an overwhelming amount of additional blood staining his clothes. His hair is damp and long around his face, and his eyes are lost, blank depths of holes.

_They're not going to kill them, Bellamy's not dead._

_This isn't her fault._

Clarke rattles the metal bars. "Fuck you. _Fuck you_."

The guards push Finn into his cell, and his legs collapse, his body stumbling to the ground in defeat. There's a noise of impact when his head hits the ground, and Clarke screams, her voice thickening with fury as the Mountain Men exit through the doorway.

"Finn," she cries, "Finn, please talk to me. Are you okay?"

He doesn't speak, and the silence builds in desperation. His hands crawl along the floor to cover his ears.

"Finn. What did they do?"

It's quiet, the echo of the chambers lonely except for the drops of blood that splatter from Finn's wound on his shoulder. There's a pool of blood surrounding him, blood and bandages. They tortured him, only to heal him again.

What the _fuck_.

Clarke exhales a shuddering breath, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. Her body feels weak, weightless, and she lowers herself against the concrete wall. The wall is cold, everything in this room is cold, and she misses the warmth.

"Finn," she tries again, and his fingers clutch tightly at his ears. "Please."

There's a choked whimper as Finn sobs, his fragile frame shaking with the release of his despair. His cries are loud, terrifying, and Clarke buries her head in her hands, the beats of her chest obtaining a new rhythm.

_They're going to kill them, Bellamy's dead._

_This is her fault_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! Intense chapter, huh? Haha. I hope you guys enjoyed it. It kind of hurt my heart a bit writing it but I'm having a lot of fun developing the characters of Clarke and Bellamy with their own story arc. But don't you worry, they will reunite soon in this instalment! It won't be too long! :)
> 
> I really want to thank all of you for your kind reviews and viewership of this story. It's truly heartwarming. You may not know this but the comments you guys make about this story make me truly happy and excited to keep writing for you all. All of you are awesome!
> 
> I'm still in the middle of finals so I think the next chapter should be up within a week. I'll probably update this story once a week, maybe sooner if my days are slow, but I'll definitely try to release new chapters as soon as I can!
> 
> Have a great week you guys! And Happy Bellarking! xoxo.


	8. Nowhere Found II: II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I have no idea what to say expect I'm sorry! I'm so sorry it took so long to post this new chapter, but things got so busy with school and moving out of residence. I also took a little break from the computer after finishing my first year of university, just to focus on my friends and family but I'm back now! :)
> 
> Secondly, I'm so glad you guys were surprised and excited to see I started the sequel! Thank you so much for the comments, I truly appreciate it and adore you guys. Thank you, thank you. Onto the second chapter of Nowhere Found II ! Enjoy :)
> 
> P.S. I had to go a little bit darker for this chapter. Hope it's okay with all of you.

i.

Finn hasn't spoken for three days.

_Three God damn days._

Clarke sits against the wall of her cell, her hands clasping tightly in front of her. The outline of his body is fragile in the distance, almost a rotting corpse, and she can taste the sense of death on his skin, can smell his defeat.

"Finn."

He doesn't turn from his position on the ground, and she grits her teeth.

" _Finn_."

He coughs. It's silent.

Clarke clenches her hands into fists. She bites on her lip, slamming her heel against the metal bars in front of her; desperate for him to hear something, or say something, anything that would reassure her. Anything that would save them.

But he doesn't move. Doesn't talk. Only breathes.

A living fucking corpse.

It's been sucking her hope, the questions that burn the back of her mind. She's been analyzing Finn's body for three days, counting the bruises and tracing the pattern of blood that stains his skin. So much blood.

The guards have been entering the chambers since they took him, but they haven't taken him again. Or her. They've only given them food, and water, removed Finn's bandages and replaced them with new ones.

Clarke almost refused to eat, refused to give them the satisfaction, refused to give her the satisfaction.

_This isn't her fault. This is her fault. Bellamy's not dead. Bellamy is dead._

But it doesn't matter. She's going fucking crazy.

There's a familiar sound of scraping, and it melts the rage rising in her, freezes the fear in her body. There's a footstep, and another, and four Mountain Men guards enter the chambers, their suits clean and pure.

Clarke leans forward. Her hands grip the material of her shirt, fingers piercing the fabric.

"Emerson."

One of the guards turn to the man who spoke, and he raises his finger, pointing towards Clarke's cell.

"Take her."

 _Fuck_.

They're quick, and determined, approaching her cell before Clarke can even lift herself from the ground. There's a flow of air that presses into her when the cell opens, and she digs her nails into her palms, fists forming into weapons.

There's the repeating of sound in her head, of names in her veins. _Bellamy, Dad, Mom_. So many people she can't disappoint. _Octavia, Charlotte, Finn_.

The guard, Emerson, grabs her arm, and she pushes him off.

"Get the fuck off me."

There's more hands at her back, arms wrapping around her waist, and she screams, her fists and heels slamming against any limb she can reach. There's a fear in her chest that won't let her go, and a vision of Finn when he returned to his cell, caked in blood and misery.

Not speaking. Barely living.

 _Bellamy, Dad, Mom_. Dead or undead, breathing or not breathing. _Octavia, Charlotte, Finn_.

She cries out, and her knuckles hit something solid.

"You fucking bitch."

The arms around her become tighter, and then there's a sharp pain in her side, a numbness that spreads into her stomach.

She see's brown, fulfilling eyes before she falls unconscious.

* * *

 

ii.

There's a light shinning through the opening of the woods that he has yet to admire. It's warm, embracing his body as he lies on the grass, reminding him of the freedom that releases from the sun rays. A freedom that feels inaccurate and unsolved.

Everything he worked for, everything he sacrificed, all for freedom.

A freedom that he expected would erase the problems from his mind, that would give his sister and those around him a new life that would be worth living. He thought freedom would be sweet, and kind, so fucking welcoming.

But if this is freedom, spending nights in the woods worrying about his sister and Clarke and the death that approaches them, then he doesn't want it.

There's a soft thud against his side, and Bellamy awakes to a strong voice, impatient and tense in the distance.

"Come on, Blake. Get up."

Bellamy grunts. He blinks, rubbing his eyes with the raw skin that remains on his fists. He's hungry and tired, still sore from the day of the massacre, and he opens his eyes, regarding the strong sunlight above him.

Stupid fucking freedom.

Raven kneels beside him to pick up her pack. "We're searching the grounds today," she tells him, checking the rounds in her gun. "Octavia's okay to walk. Shouldn't be too far of a distance from the Ark."

Bellamy nods and lifts himself from the ground. There's blood and dirt that remain on his clothes, substances that the water from the river hasn't been able to remove. He doesn't know whether it's his blood or not, doesn't really care.

Raven stands before him. "How are you?" she inquires.

"Everyone keeps asking me that."

Raven shrugs. She wraps her fingers around her pack and ties it around her shoulders. "It can't be that hard to believe," she says, adjusting the bag to rest comfortably on her back. "You lost something back there."

He sighs heavily, and it hurts. It still fucking hurts to breathe. He doesn't know what him and Clarke meant, doesn't know where she is, but he knows what she meant to him. And he knows that she's gone, and he doesn't feel so alive anymore.

Bellamy looks at Raven, remembers shaggy hair and innocent eyes.

"So did you."

She swallows thickly. There's an instant pain that enters her eyes, and she blinks, riding the misery from her gaze. Finn was her best friend. Finn was something to her too.

"Yeah, well, shit happens," she tells him, but there's still a hint of agony in her vision. "You prepared for what you're going to find?"

Bellamy shakes his head. "Does it matter?"

Raven raises her eyebrows in agreement. No, it doesn't fucking matter. All that matters is that Clarke is safe. That's all that matters to him.

_God, she better be safe._

"I guess we'll find out," she whispers.

Freedom, like he said, didn't matter at all.

* * *

 

iii.

There's a defining coldness in the room when Clarke awakens.

It's dark, and empty, reflecting the internal emotions that fill the fear in her chest. A fear that tightens when she opens her eyes to blackness, when she feels the material of a cloth against her eyelids.

She can't fucking _see_.

Cool metal touches the inside of her arms, and she twists her hands, releasing a whimper when she feels the knots that tie her wrists to a chair. A chair filled with coldness and darkness and emptiness.

Clarke hisses, struggling against the rope that binds her.

"Look who finally woke up."

Clarke winces at the additional voice in the room. It's deep and distant, a tone she's never heard before, a tone that creeps under her skin and sends shivers down her spine. She clutches the armchair when his footsteps gain closer.

Raw hands clutch her face, ripping the blindfold from her eyes.

Her gaze is blurry, and she blinks at the cloudiness that remains from whatever the fuck they inserted her with. There's a figure of a man in front of her, dark hair and pale skin, eyes peering into hers.

"I've heard about you Clarke Griffin," he whispers, and his voice is too close, his breath is too near, "I'm Cage Wallace."

Clarke spits in his face.

Cage smiles, and she see's the hint of amusement in his gaze before he raises his hand and slaps her harshly across her cheek. She coughs, her skin stinging with hatred as she turns back to him, her expression filling with rage.

"Fuck you."

Cage laughs. "We've only just met, Clarke. Already making assumptions?"

Clarke doesn't answer, her glare settling on the spark that enters his eyes. His finger traces lightly on the redness that erupts from her cheek, and she tilts her head to the side, her fingers digging into the metal. Her eyes narrow when she sees a bucket of ice water beside the chair.

"Do you know where you are, Clarke Griffin?"

She swallow thickly. "What did you do to Finn?"

Cage grins. He reaches forward, his hands gripping the bucket of water and pulling it in front of her. The coldness deepens inside her chest, and she glances around the room, see's guards lining the walls.

_Fucking monsters._

"You don't like to listen, do you?" Cage purrs. His lips curl into a smirk as he grips the base of her neck, pulling her forward. "You're in the Mount Weather Prisoner of War facility. I would like to ask you a few questions."

Clarke releases a low whimper. She's so cold, and so tired, but she remembers Bellamy, remembers the people that occupy her heart. His fingers are heavy on her skin, and she tries not to focus on the fear in her eyes in the reflection of the water.

Cage grasps her chin and directs her glare towards him. "What do you know about the Reapers?" he asks.

 _Reapers_. The word is unfamiliar.

Clarke breathes deeply and looks at Cage with disgust. "Go fuck yourself."

There's a snicker that releases from the men in the room, and she see's the glint of Cage's smile before he pushes her head into the water.

Cold and dark and empty water.

Her face pierces from the bitterness that swallows her, torturous depths surrounding her skin. Her hands cling to the armchair as she shuts her eyes, mouth open as she screams, and she can hear the mocking murmurs from above her, can hear the ringing in her head and feel the pressure in her chest.

She can't fucking _breathe_.

Cage's voice mumbles above the surface, and his fingers grip her neck as he pulls her upward, pushing her roughly against the chair.

Droplets of water blur her vision, and she coughs wildly, struggling to control her breathing.

"I'm going to ask you again," Cage slithers, and she can't even see him, can't even fucking hear him past the fear that courses inside her. "What do you know about the God damn Reapers?"

Clarke cries out, her chest reeling from the loss of breath that tightens her body. She grits her teeth as she swallows thickly, glaring at Cage with pure hatred in her eyes.

"I am going to fucking kill you."

Cage smirks, a product of destruction. "Wrong answer."

And then he dunks her into the water once more, cold and dark and empty.

* * *

 

iv.

Blood and ash and death is all that remains of the Ark.

Corpses line the perimeter of the camp grounds, their features stained with lifeless eyes and expressions. The open wounds of their bodies release fluids onto the dirt, creating a tension of the massacre that plagued the camp with terror and hopelessness.

But Bellamy can't be hopeless. He can't allow his search for Clarke to be hopeless.

"Come on, Bell," Octavia whispers, tugging on the material of his shirt. "You don't have to see this."

Bellamy shakes his head. He'll never stop seeing this. He'll never forget these images and these people, will never forget the longing in Clarke's lips before she parted from him, her kiss sweet and painful.

_Clarke Clarke Clarke._

He rubs his hand against Octavia's shoulder, stepping away from the camp square. Wick and Jasper stand in the distance, confirming the silence as an indication of security, as an indication that Jaha is gone, that the Mountain Men are gone.

Everyone is fucking gone.

But not Clarke. Clarke _can't_ be gone.

"It's clear," Wick calls, gesturing for them to come forward.

Bellamy nods, turning towards Lincoln as he assists Octavia in walking. He clenches his hands into fists, the idea of being so close, of being close to the cabin his mother used to live in, of being close to the cabin Clarke _should_ be in, an idea that has been haunting him for days.

They turn onto her street, and his chest fills with uncertainty.

Uncertainty and anxiety, anxiety and hope, that hope that has driven him and failed him and motivated him and terrified him. He wants those blue eyes and that blonde hair, that icy gaze that removes any form of grief from his heart.

"Whatever you find," Octavia grips his arm, stopping him in front of Clarke's cabin, "it doesn't mean she's gone. She'll never be gone."

Bellamy understands her words. She'll never be gone, even if she's dead. She could be dead. "Memory lives forever, right?," he sarcastically hisses, and he doesn't mean for his voice to shake. "We'll all be okay as long as we have fucking memories."

Octavia stares at him, and they're all God damn staring at him. He breathes deeply, regarding the others around him with a glance filled with tension and a glint of hope, a hope that shatters with every step he takes up her porch stairs.

The moment he opens the front door, there's no hope at all.

Bullet holes spread along the walls of the living room, indenting the wood in a stain of death and murder. There's the gathering of glass from a broken window, shards piling in the kitchen, and holy fuck his heart hurts.

Holy fuck _everything_ hurts.

"Bellamy."

He can hear the tearful tone in his sister's voice, and he closes his eyes, his footsteps heavy as he walks towards the basement door. There's an overwhelming sense of agony as he steps down the staircase, an agony that clenches his throat and eyes and soul.

He almost collapses when he see's the chaos that surrounds the basement, the room where Finn hid in, the room where Clarke should have been. The room that was supposed to fill the burning hole in his chest.

There's blood. On the couch and the floor. So much blood that there's no hope at all.

"Bell," Octavia whimpers, "I'm so sorry."

Bellamy says nothing, feels nothing, an emptiness widening the hole inside him. He turns on his heel and exits the basement, ignores the pleading look of his sister, ignores the pitying glances of the remaining survivors, focusing on nothing except his breathing.

And when he leaves the cabin, his palms sweaty and his heart racing, he allows himself to hurt, and God does he fucking hurt.

* * *

 

v.

She's alive. That's all she knows.

Her hands cramp with tension as she unravels her grip from the armchair, palms raw and peeling. There's a burning in her throat and eyes, a fire within her despite the cold water that remains on her skin.

Her breathing is laboured and her body is breaking, but she's alive.

 _Alive_. Clarke doesn't even know what that means anymore.

She doesn't know whether it is defined by the pulsing of blood in veins, or by the occasions that create happiness and feelings of accomplishment. Doesn't know whether her life is a sequence of living or dying.

Her eyes begins to drift to a soft slumber. She wants her mom, wants her dad. She wants Bellamy.

"Oh come on now, Griffin, don't break on me just yet."

There's an impact of skin against her cheek, and Clarke's eyes open, her glare settling on the dark-haired devil in front of her. His gaze remains amused, and he still has the same smirk he wore throughout the entirety of her torture.

She hates Cage Wallace. She wants to kill Cage Wallace.

His lips curl at the misery in her expression, and he drags the bucket of water behind him. Gesturing for the Mountain Men guards to exit the room, he lowers himself to the ground, kneeling in front of her.

Two hours of torture and unanswered questions, and he still has that God damn smile.

"You know, you're a pretty girl, Clarke Griffin," he whispers. His tone has lowered, and so has his hands. She visibly winces when he slides his palms across her thighs. "I'm sure we can find a reason to keep you alive."

Clarke struggles to prevent her shaking. "Fuck you," she growls.

"That's what I'm intending."

Her eyes widen at his words, and there's that smile, that smile that grows in wickedness and corruption. He leans forward, his lips ghosting the damp strands of her hair as he grasps the edge of her pants.

Clarke screams, her body thrashing against him.

"What, you don't like that?" He chuckles. His finger traces the hem of her shirt, lifting it to feel the skin of her stomach. She cries out in anguish. "Come on, I'm sure we can compromise."

Clarke twists against the knots that bind her wrists and ankles, her chest rumbling with terror as he begins to lower his hand. She screams again and again, continues to thrash and cry. Cage rests his forehead against her neck, and she feels his pulse against her own, stares at the thin layer of his skin.

Clarke leans forward, her teeth deepening into the flesh of his neck.

There's a yell of pain, and Cage gasps, stumbling from the chair in a panic. He clutches at the blood that oozes from his neck, eyes wide with shock as two guards enter the room in alarm.

"You piece of shit," he hisses.

Clarke spits the tear of skin from her mouth, the crimson covering the surface of her lips. She's still shaking, still breathing, and Cage walks towards her, slamming his fist against the side of her face.

It hurts, but it doesn't hurt as much as the idea of what he was about to do.

But that still hurts, too.

Everything would hurt a lot less if she had Bellamy.

"Bring this one back to her cell," Cage directs the two guards, pointing to her as an additional Mountain Man wraps a cloth around his neck, "we'll try to get more information from her tomorrow. Then we'll kill her."

Her head is filled with hatred and disdain when the guards unbind her from the chair, eyes staring into Cage's black holes.

She's alive, that's all she knows. She's alive for now.

But she doesn't really know what that means anymore.

* * *

 

vi.

Bellamy has no fucking idea what he's doing.

They're walking amongst the grass in the woods, returning from the Ark in a line of disappointment and despair. There's no life in the camp anymore, no hope for life, no hope at all. There's nothing but death and memories.

Thank God for memories, right?

He can hear the continuation of Octavia's silent tears, and he ignores it, ignores the need to cry with her. There's a sense of grief in the group, and it follows him, haunts him, enters his thoughts and makes him think stupid things.

Makes him think of what the fuck he's doing. Makes him wonder why he's still here.

Clarke's gone. And he now he's gone.

"We should search for another camp," Lincoln announces, the first one to speak in hours, "find shelter and make ourselves a home."

Bellamy breathes heavily. He supported the rebellion, guided them, led the members to destruction, was responsible for their lives, alive or dead. He can't leave them. He won't leave them until they're safe.

He won't move a fucking step until his sister is safe.

After that, it doesn't really matter.

"Jaha mentioned successful rebellions in other camps," Monty interjects, "maybe if we - "

Monty pauses, releasing a low gasp at an additional snarl in their surroundings. There's a breaking of branches, a swiftness of movement, and Bellamy turns towards the source of the sound, his eyes landing on a growling wolf across from them.

_Fucking damn it._

Raven looks at Jasper, the person closest to the creature. "Don't move. We don't how many others there may be," she hisses.

Monty nods his head in agreement. "I've heard they travel in herds, there could be - "

"Well it could just be one," Octavia whispers, "we can shoot it now and - "

There's an opening of flesh, a low squeal, and the rebellion members turn towards the wolf to see Bellamy upon it, his knife digging into it's skin. His blade erupts an outpour of blood onto the grass, staining the nature with additional death, with more and more darkness.

Nature. The outside used to be the nature, now killing is the nature.

Bellamy continues to stab the animal, long past it's death, long past it's need to be mauled. He cuts at the neck, at the arms and legs, cuts and cuts until there's nothing to cut anymore.

"Bellamy."

Octavia's voice is a light in the darkness, and Bellamy stops, his fingers clenching around the knife. He breathes deeply, doesn't know what he just did, doesn't know why he did it. All he knows is that the wolf is dead, that Clarke is dead.

Bellamy drops the blade from his hands, standing before them with a face filled with crimson.

"Well," he mumbles, wiping his bloodied hands against his pants, "I got dinner."

* * *

 

vii.

Clarke Griffin is going to die tomorrow.

She's going to return to the room, the room of suffering and pain, and she's going to get tortured. They're going to torture her with their very presence, going to torture her with their very existence. The existence of every man and woman who betrayed their authority. Who take pleasure in the pain of the innocent.

Jaha, Mountain Men, Cage. They're all going to live. And she's going to die.

She clenches her fists. She's going to die.

Clarke breathes deeply, her pulse quickening as the rage that was silent for so long, the rage that Bellamy was able to tame, begins to rise in her chest. She follows the guards to her cell, her body still damp from torment, her hands tied in metal cuffs.

_Don't be scared to fight for what you believe in._

Fight. She's been fighting her entire life. She fought Jaha, fought for her friends and their survival, she fought for Charlotte, fought for her mother and Finn and Bellamy. But she needs to fight for herself. She needs to win.

Her muscles are sore, and her bones ache, but there's a strength that powers her. An anger that motivates her as the two guards open the door to the chamber, as they walk her towards her cell.

_She's not going to die tomorrow._

It's a blur of blood and chaos as Clarke lunges forward, her metal cuffs wrapping around the neck of one of the guards. He gasps, his breath caught on the tightening of his throat as Clarke pulls on the chains, sucking the air from his lungs and the soul from his body.

She's not going to _fucking_ die tomorrow.

The guard in her hold, the bastard named Emerson, begins to struggle, his hands searching for his gun. Emerson pulls the object from his belt and aims the weapon behind him, aims the weapon towards her.

Clarke shifts her body, guiding Emerson to face the other guard in front of them. There's a sequence of gun shots as he pulls the trigger, several bullets entering the second guard's body, his corpse collapsing to the ground in a heap of muscle and blood.

There's a snapping of bone, and Emerson stops breathing, stops fucking living.

Holy fuck. Holy shit.

His body slumps to the cement, falling beside the dead guard that accompanied him. Two dead guards. She just killed two guards. Her hands tremble as she searches for the keys in their pockets, releasing the metal cuffs from her wrists and grabbing the keys to Finn's cell.

She also grabs their guns, grabs their knives. And their key cards.

She's getting the fuck out of here.

Clarke rushes towards Finn's cell, her breathing short and laboured as she pushes the metal bars open. He's laying on his stomach as she approaches him, his long hair curling at his ears, his skin pale and cold.

"Finn," she hisses, roughly shaking him, "get the fuck up. Now."

There's a soft murmur of disbelief, and his eyes peel open to the sound of her voice. He looks so weak and tired, looks like he's dying. But he won't. She's not going to let him die. She's not going to let herself die.

"Come on," she whispers, and he allows her to lift him from the ground. He sways on his feet, and she wraps her arm around his shoulders, supporting him. "We need to get out of here."

They stumble out of the cell, their bodies aching with torment as Clarke guides them towards the second door in the chamber. She scans the key guard against the detector, opening the door to a large hallway.

A large hallway with another door at the end.

"We don't know," Finn mumbles, and he can barely make a sentence, can barely speak, "we don't know if that's our way out."

Clarke sighs. "We better hope so."

She grunts as she paces towards the door, her frame almost breaking with the additional weight of Finn's body. There's so much pain, so much suffering and nightmares of the both of them, so much of the future that she doesn't know.

But she's not going to die tomorrow. No fucking way.

She curses when sirens begin to sound, noticing a security camera in the corner of the hallway. She quickens her step, urges Finn to follow, urges him to stay awake, to stay alive.

They reach the end of the hallway, and Clarke scans the key guard against the other detector, her breath shuddering in relief when it unlocks for their entry.

Clarke pushes the door open, and there's gust of wind and the shinning of sunlight.

_Holy shit._

They step out of the hallway, their feet landing onto the dirt as they enter a small mine. A mine filled with rocks and minimals she's never seen before. Things she's never knew existed. They made it. They fucking made it.

"Oh God," she breathes, and she feels it, feels alive. "Come on. Come _on_."

They stumble towards the opening of the mine, their bodies bruised and battered in their attempts to continue walking. Their breathing is ragged when they reach the end of the path, when they reach the end of the God damn cliff.

A cliff with no way out, except for the water far below them.

Finn sighs heavily. "Damn."

Clarke looks at him, desperate. "Jump on three?" she asks.

He nods, his expression blank and dull as he stares at the body of water that flows beneath them. She knows how to swim, was taught by her father, and she can do this. They can do this.

She's not going to die tomorrow.

Clarke counts to three, and there's a moment of hesitation before she throws herself over the cliff, Finn following her as they plunge into the deep depths of the river, as they escape the facility that terrorized them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys, that's the second chapter! I am so sorry if it feels rushed, but honestly I wrote it in one day because I was just so desperate to put up for you guys! I truly hope you guys enjoyed this one, and don't worry that Bellarke reunion is coming closer!
> 
> In the next one, it'll be mostly Clarke and Finn. (But don't worry, not romantically). And will also feature Bellamy being Bellamy with the thought of Clarke being dead. Again, more angst to come!
> 
> Also, in a private message, someone asked me about the development of Clarke and Bellamy in this instalment, and if they will change by the time they see each other again. The answer is yes, they will change dramatically, and it will certainly affect their relationship in the future, but not in a bad way. In a stronger and more passionate way. You guys will see eventually :)
> 
> I hope to post the next chapter by Sunday. I'm pretty sure I will be able to :)
> 
> Again, thanks for all the awesome people who read this, and for the fandom being awesome. Have a great week!
> 
> Happy Bellarking! xoxo.


	9. Nowhere Found II: III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm glad you enjoyed the second chapter, now here's the third chapter to Nowhere Found II ! Hope you all like it and thank you again so much for the lovely comments they truly make my day.
> 
> P.S. This chapter might be a little short. But next chapter will make up for it ;)

i.

Her breathing is laboured when Clarke emerges from the water.

It's cold, the brisk flow of the river wounding around her body in the bitterness. Her senses fill with the fresh air around her, and she coughs at the tightness in her throat, the pressure in her chest, glancing at the above cliff in a moment of relief.

She's alive. _Alive_.

The forest surrounding her begins to darken along with the sun, cascading a dimness amongst her as she glides her body towards the shore. There's a mess of brown hair and pale skin settling on the edge of land, and she breathes in a sigh of relief, her eyes softening at the sight of Finn.

Clarke grips the roots of the grass as she reaches the land, pulling herself towards the ground, towards the landscape of the woods. Woods. She's never seen this before. Never seen so many trees in the same place.

And it's not worth it. Not worth it without the additional presence of the people she wants, the people she needs.

Clarke collapses onto the grass, her aching body pressing into the soil. Her figure shakes with each gust of wind that passes, damp hair and damp clothes, and she rolls onto her back, staring up at the sky.

The sky doesn't look any different. Maybe she's the only one who's different.

Clarke looks at Finn, at the distant gaze in his eyes. He sits beside her, his arms wrapped around his knees, his skin rattling with water. He has that agony in his expression, the agony he's had for days.

The two knives from the guards are beside him, but she doesn't see the guns. They lost the damn guns in the fucking water.

"We should go in the direction of the camp," she whispers, voice hoarse and low, "the other survivors should be close to camp."

 _Bellamy_ should be close to camp, but it hurts too much to say his name.

And it hurts too much to think of the possibility of never saying his name again, of never seeing his face again. Hurts too much to think about the torture from the cliff above, and the pain from the Mountain Men, from Cage and his hands.

Finn doesn't answer, and she doesn't expect him to, doesn't expect him to do anything when she turns her body into the ground and cries into the dirt.

* * *

 

ii.

The sky is swallowed in darkness when Clarke settles herself against a tree.

There's a fire burning in front of her, sparks of brightness shinning through the black shadows of the forest. It erupts in the desperate sensation of warmth, blanketing her in its flames, blanketing her in a minimum security she hasn't felt since the days at the Ark.

Or, more accurately, the security she hasn't felt since Bellamy's last embrace.

Clarke breathes heavily. She runs her fingers along the scales of the cooked fish in front of her, a fish she was able to capture before her and Finn left the banks of the river. It's eyes are gold, staring at her in a state of unknown, and she pushes the finished meal from her lap.

She looks up at Finn, see's he hasn't even touched his food.

"You should eat," she tells him.

He doesn't respond, and she sighs deeply.

"Finn," she hisses. His glare is solid as he plays with a loose strand of grass. "You're going to have to talk, or your thoughts will destroy you."

Finn glances at her. There's no hint of emotion behind his eyes, no expression, and she crosses her arms over her chest.

"Listen." She stares at him, and his features are a reflection of darkness, his deep depths lost within his pain. She's talking to a corpse, an inhuman being. "We can't afford to be weak down here, we can't afford to - "

"I'm not fucking weak," he growls.

Clarke winces at his harsh tone. Even through the rage in his voice, the anger and frustration, there is no hint of feeling in his words. She leans forward, and there's no sympathy, no tenderness.

"Then stop acting like it."

Finn glares at her, a ghost in his vision, and she returns the look with impatience of her own. They've been tortured, they've lost and they've grieved, but they can't give up, she's not letting them give up.

Bellamy could still be out there. He could be _alive_.

If that's what she spends her life doing, if that's how she dies, looking for Bellamy, then it'll be worth it.

And, also, if she manages to rebuild a rebellion, to kill Jaha and Cage and their army, then that'll be worth it too.

There's a cracking of the moon, and low howl rumbles from the trees in the forest. She's heard the sound before, recognizes it as the noise of a wolf, and she huddles herself closer to the fire, settling her back against the tree.

Finn's expression is cold when she glances at him. "I'll keep watch for the night. Go to sleep," she mumbles.

He lowers his body onto the dirt, facing away from her as he curls himself beside the fire. She notices the scars and bruises that mark his body, can feel the same ones on her own skin, and there's a spark of guilt that runs through her, the curse of responsibility.

This isn't her fault. Bellamy's not dead.

Maybe if she keeps repeating it, it'll come true.

* * *

 

iii.

The howl of wolves shriek into the obscurity of the night.

Bellamy lies on his side, his fingers clutching grass as the animal's calling echoes around him. He sighs, the blood remaining on his clothes from the wolf he killed, the wolf he _butchered_. And it didn't feel wrong, or tasteless, he felt _nothing_.

But there's more of them, probably herds of them, probably herds of countless other vicious animals, and there's always going to be more death and destruction that awaits them.

He'll never stop killing, never stop the eternal emptiness inside him.

And it doesn't matter, because as Octavia limps towards him, muttering about not sleeping and the dangers of contemplating actions, he knows he's not living for himself, but for the young people sleeping around him, and that's enough reason to keep going.

To keep going. To survive. Or whatever.

"Remember what mom always told us," Octavia counters as she settles beside him on the ground, "sleeping thoughts are the depiction of a shadowed mind."

Bellamy scoffs. "Well, mom's dead."

Octavia winces. She props herself on her elbows, and there's that determination in her eyes, that drive, seeking whatever emotion she attempts to find in him. He turns his face away from her, because she knows she'll find something in his gaze that she doesn't want to see.

She'll see nothing. Even pain is better than nothing.

"You didn't have to do that, you know," she whispers after a moment.

He sighs. He knows what she's talking about, cutting the wolf into pieces. "I did," he says, because he doesn't have another answer that will satisfy her, doesn't have a version of the truth that won't worry her, so instead he lies.

Octavia raises her eyebrows. "So you did it to make you feel better? And did it make you feel better?"

Bellamy doesn't say anything. It didn't make him feel _anything_. There's nothing to feel anymore, nothing except the part of him that will always protect his sister and those around him, that part will never go away.

But the other part, the part when he smiled and meant it, that part bled into the walls of Clarke's cabin.

Octavia bites on her lip. "Clarke can still be - "

"Stop," he demands. It's so painful to hear her name.

There's a moment of silence, and the world seems to fade around him at the image of blonde hair and blue eyes. He sighs, expecting the pain and the torment, but it never comes, doesn't feel anything except Octavia inching closer to him, curling into his side.

"I'm sorry, Bell," she breathes against his shoulder.

Bellamy nods. He looks at the sky, and the stars look so beautiful, and it only hurts a little when he realizes why.

* * *

 

iv.

Clarke awakens to the brightness of the sun.

It's large, and beautiful, and she hasn't seen the strength of the sun in days. It lightens the landscape around her, illuminating rocks and flowers and nests of animals she's never seen before.

There's a pile of worms that gather around the corpse of her fish. Worms are gross.

She rubs her eyes, her body stretching against the tree as she wakes with the forest. She only managed to stay watch for a couple of hours before waking Finn up, her voice hoarse with exhaustion when she asked him to take her place.

He was quiet and weary. Didn't talk again.

Clarke sighs and looks at him. He has the same expression, the same nothingness to him as he plays with the God damn grass. He must have been doing that for hours. Tracing the strands of grass for hours.

She bites on her lip. "We should find something to eat," she says.

"I don't want to eat."

Her mouth quivers. " _Finn_."

He glances at her then, the reflection of darkness in his gaze. She shakes her head, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to fix it. She's good at fixing things, cuts and injuries, but she thinks this wound may be too deep.

Her voice is low and fragile when she speaks. "Are you okay?"

Finn swallows thickly. He rips at roots of grass, his fingers digging into the soil as he lifts himself from the ground. He grabs his knife and kicks dirt onto the fire, destroying it, his body moving in a form of instruction and direction.

He looks at her before walking into the depths of the forest, and Clarke stands, grabbing her knife before she hesitantly follows.

* * *

 

v.

"What the hell are we even doing?"

Clarke glances at Finn, his eyes scanning the ground. The sun beats heavily on their skin as they continue to search for food, any form of food or animal, and she can notice the frustration dripping from his forehead.

She wipes at the sweat under her eyes and grips the knife in her hand.

"We're surviving," she tells him, squeezing the blade between her fingers, "we always have."

Finn shakes his head. "We're going to die out here."

Clarke swallows thickly. She stops, her feet sinking into the soil as she turns to him. His hair is curled around his ears, heated and frustrated, and the bubbling rage inside of her begins to release.

"Then die," she spits. She points a finger towards her chest, pounding on her bones. "At least I'm trying."

The sun is burning their bodies, and she can see the fever in his glare as he walks towards her. The knife is secured in his palm, and he clenches onto it, skin breaking over the blade. His body responds, although his face doesn't, his expression still settling into nothingness.

"Trying?" He laughs, and it's a mocking tone. "You're the fucking person who led us here."

Clarke gulps. "Finn - "

"You and Bellamy." He points his knife towards her, the pointed end inches from her nose. "All high and mighty about the whole damn thing. Then you get us killed, or tortured. The shit that you don't survive for."

" _Finn_." She takes a shuddering breath. "Calm down."

"We're here because of you, Clarke. We're dead because of you."

Clarke stares at him. There's a hint of emotion in his eyes, emotion directed towards her, and she recognizes the hatred and the disgust. She swallows thickly and holds his glare.

The rage that rises in her, that rage she can never controlled, maybe it's not towards the people around her, maybe it's towards herself.

She repeats the words in her head. She thinks of Bellamy.

_This isn't her fault. Bellamy's still alive. This isn't her fault._

But then she looks at Finn. And oh God, he's looking at her as if she's the one who tortured him.

There's a cracking of twigs, and a wildness in Finn's eyes. He lifts his hand, the knife hanging loosely in his grip before he throws the blade from his grasp. Clarke winces, the edges scrapping her hair as it passes.

She turns behind her to see the knife piercing a rabbit against a tree.

Finn's breath nears her forehead when he speaks. "I got the food," he mumbles.

And then he steps away from her, his hands clenching into fists as he removes the blade from the rabbit's flesh. Blood smears his skin, and Clarke watches him, watches the tension in his back, watches the vengeance in his eyes.

* * *

 

vi.

Bellamy thinks he hates the sun.

It's always shinning, always bright and happy, and he hates it. It holds the false hope of a beautiful day, of a beautiful life, sending lies and deception through the heat of its rays.

He wipes at the sweat building behind his neck. He _hates_ the sun.

It's the only emotion he's managed to feel since he visited the Ark.

Bellamy releases a longing breath, his hands gripping the pack that hangs on his shoulders. He glances at Octavia walking beside him, eyes filled with irritation as she wraps her arms around Lincoln's waist, her wounded leg heavy on the ground.

Bellamy looks at Lincoln. He's tall, strong. He'll be able to take care of Octavia if anything happens.

"Whatever shelter we find," Octavia huffs, "maybe there'll be a shower. Or a brush."

Wick snickers from behind them. "Or maybe some cake," he adds.

"Yes," Jasper agrees. " _Chocolate_ cake."

Bellamy breathes deeply. He shuffles the pack comfortably on his body, the medicine and weapons stirring inside. They've been walking for hours, days, and they haven't found anything. Not even a decent friggin' tent.

Or people. He hasn't come across another human in weeks.

"Guys!" There's a shout from in front of them, and Bellamy glances at Raven, her hands beckoning them forward. "Come here!"

Bellamy sighs, walking towards her, the others following closely behind. There's a hint of confusion in her face as she gestures towards the tree, her fingers running along the bark.

"Look at this," she says.

Bellamy observes the tree in front of him, his eyes scanning the words carved into the trunk. The letters are jagged, newly inserted, and he shakes his head, his mind calculating.

" _Follow the Reapers_ ," Octavia reads. She looks at her older brother. "Reapers? What does that mean?"

Bellamy shakes his head. "I don't know."

He trace his fingers over the carving. Reapers. Lincoln stands beside him, analyzing the tree, the same confusion reflecting in his eyes.

"Maybe it's a sanctuary," Lincoln offers.

Wick nods. "Or a trap."

"It doesn't matter," Monty tells them. He steps further into the forest. "We can figure it out later. We'll have to catch dinner before it gets dark."

Octavia hums in agreement, and she breathes deeply, her hand tugging on Lincoln's waist. Lincoln glances over the bark before hesitantly turning towards her, pulling her towards his body.

"Come on, Bell." Octavia touches his shoulder. "Maybe Jaha probably wrote that. Set something up."

Bellamy swallows thickly. "Yeah. Maybe."

He glances at her, dropping his hand from the tree before following the others deeper into the woods.

Maybe it's another group of rebellion, or a group of survivors. Maybe it's bad, or good, maybe it'll help them survive, maybe it'll kill them.

_Reapers Reapers Reapers_

_Maybe Maybe Maybe._

* * *

 

vii.

She awakens to the howling of wolves.

They're loud, their calling sounding throughout the darkness of the night. The grass is damp beneath her, fingers curling into the soil, nails digging into the dirt. Clarke lifts her head, eyes searching for Finn's figure across from her.

She blinks. She doesn't see him.

"Finn?"

Clarke rises onto her knees. She squints her gaze into the blackness surrounding her as she stands to her feet. The howling of wolves continue, sharp and near, and she glances at the ground where Finn should have been, notices his knife missing.

"Shit," she hisses.

Clarke bends to grab her knife from the grass, gripping it tightly between her fingers. She steps away from the camp and walks toward the direction of the wolf, eyes constantly searching the darkness.

"Finn," she whispers. The only response is another howl. " _Finn_."

She steps further into the forest, her legs and arms heavy with the apprehension in her chest. That beating of rage, that guilt, that realization of the men and women whom she led to destruction. She closes her eyes, her fingers pressing against her temples as the howling continues.

There's a growl and a whimper, and then the howling is gone. She squeezes the knife in her grasp.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it.

"Finn," she calls.

No answer.

Clarke releases a shuddering breath. She looks at the trees, at the grass and the sky, looks at every single object surrounding her. There's another noise of branches breaking, another whispered sound in the night, and -

Hands clench around her shoulders, colliding into her, and she collapses onto the ground.

Clarke gasps as her head slams against the dirt, loud and painful and present. She blinks, her eyes unclear as they stare into the face above her, the face that shed every hint of emotion from his expression, the face that remained a human corpse.

The fact that is now filled with hatred and wildness. The face now filled with _murder_.

His hands wrap around her neck. "Finn," she coughs.

He slams her head against the ground, and she cries out, thrashing beneath him. She reaches out, hands searching for the knife she dropped from his attack, and she feels the tip of her blade, feels the -

Pain enters her body from her shoulder, and she screams, feeling the blood drip from her skin.

She looks at Finn, see's the crazed look in his eyes as he holds his knife above her, descending the blade upon her for another wound.

Clarke rolls from beneath his body, her fingers tightening around the cut on her shoulder. She winces as she hears Finn's blade stab the ground where her throat would be, his growl of frustration erupting from her movement.

She reaches forward and grabs her knife. "Finn," she warns when she turns to him, " _stop_."

He doesn't, and he grabs her ankle, pulling her towards him to jab his blade into her thigh.

Clarke shrieks and see's red.

She sobs, her heart pounding wildly in her chest as she stares at the black holes in his eyes. There's blood that stains his face, the blood of the wolf and of his innocence. But there's no remorse in his glare, no regret, and see's red and pain. And she see's her rage.

The rage that he's about to kill her, the rage that she's going to let him.

She shakes her head. Gives him one last warning. "Finn," she cries.

Finn narrows his eyes, as if he's attempting to recognize her voice, as if he's contemplating what he's about to do. But then the insanity enters his eyes again, and he raises his hand, lowering the blade upon her.

Clarke shoves at his chest, pushing him onto the ground and thrusting her knife into his chest.

There's a choking noise, a gasp, and there's a moment of life that enters his expression as he withers beneath her. He grips her shoulders, mouth open in shock as the pain paralyzes his body.

Clarke sobs from above him. The tears wetting her cheeks as she stares at the eyes that were once filled with compassion, the eyes that were once filled with hope. And she killed it. She killed him long before she plunged the knife to his chest.

The life leaves his face. And he's dying. He's dead.

Clarke screams, loud and harsh, her heart bleeding along with her shoulder and thigh. She screams for her parents, for Bellamy and Octavia, and Charlotte, she screams for Finn.

And she screams for herself.

She rolls off him, the corpse that was once Finn Collins. Her fingers clutch at the blood that pours from her open wounds, and there's so much pain in her veins, so much destruction.

She killed someone. A friend.

It's her fault.

It's her fucking fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I know. Very sad Clarke and Bellamy :( But hey maybe they'll get better (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, it was pretty fun to write crazy Finn. But now crazy Finn is gone :( RIP CRAZY FINN!
> 
> Also, I'm going to give you guys a hint for the next chapter. The hint is a reunion. What kind of reunion? I don't know. I think you guys can make a good guess :)
> 
> Okay! I am hoping to post next chapter by next sunday since I'm having a very busy week. (Two girls I knew passed away in a tragic car crash, and I've been throwing myself into writing to help me through the grief).
> 
> Please keep the families in your prayers.
> 
> Happy Bellarking! xoxo
> 
> P.S. Comments/reviews really do mean the world :)


	10. Nowhere Found II: IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I start, I just want to personally thank all of you who are still reading this story. I'm sorry for not being able to reply to each comment in the review section, but there aren't even enough words to describe my gratitude for your beautiful and motivating words. So thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> Now onto the part you've all been waiting for . . .
> 
> Here is the special fourth chapter of Nowhere Found II ! I hope you guys enjoy it, I have a feeling you will :)

i.

Clarke remembers the first time she washed blood from her hands.

She was thirteen, so young and innocent, terribly limited to the knowledge of inequality in the Ark. There was no vision of a rebellion in her mind, no idea of a life grander than the one she was living.

She was thirteen. Her parents were alive. She was content.

Until she felt the warm substance of another person's blood on her skin.

It was her ninth day assisting her mother in the medical bay, the room bursting with red due to a recent (yet hidden) riot in the camp square. Her mother explained it was merely an accident that occurred, involving citizens who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

There was a man Clarke remembers, a 49-year-old with a deep wound in the veins nearing his neck. His voice was hoarse when he spoke to her, telling her that she looked like one of his children. But his injury was too severe and his heart seemed too good, and so his blood was the blood that burned her skin the most.

Hours after, Clarke and her mother returned to their cabin, their hands soaked with crimson.

"You did the best you could," her mother whispered that night, and her voice was so soft it only made Clarke cry harder. "Everyone has lost a patient."

Clarke shook her head. "He was a father. He was loved."

"Love doesn't save everyone, baby."

It doesn't, of course it doesn't, not as Clarke currently bends over the stream of a river, scrubbing Finn's blood from her body, washing the wounds on her shoulder and thigh. Not as she strips Finn's clothes and pushes his corpse into the river, wrapping the material of his shirt around her injuries.

She rubs her fingers roughly against her skin, but the blood remains, present and aching.

Her sob echoes the woods as she washes her body of Finn's existence. The boy who once smiled and laughed, now drifting into the nothingness of the lake. The boy loved, the boy who was loved.

But, as her mother stated, love doesn't save everyone.

It certainly didn't save Clarke from the hundreds of people she led to their death, or to the patients she had that she couldn't recover. It didn't save Clarke from sinking her knife into Finn's body, metal scrapping against his bones.

As she rocks onto her back, pulling her shaking knees to her chin, she realizes it. Because no. No, love didn't save Clarke.

Love destroyed her.

* * *

 

ii.

Bellamy grips the axe steadily in his hand, lifting his arm towards the heat of the sky.

The sun is burning on his skin, a constant reminder of the walking corpse he has become, of the living body that is filled with emptiness. He breathes deeply, eyes concentrating on the thickness of the tree in front of him.

There's a pause, and silence, and he throws the axe, the edge slicing roughly into the depths of the trunk.

"So that's how it works, huh?"

Bellamy winces, shifting his glare towards the direction of the voice. Jasper appears beside him in the woods, his hands tucked in his pockets, mouth perked into a smile that fails to become genuine.

Bellamy sighs. "What do you want, Jasper?"

"Octavia just finished cooking the rabbits," he announced, leaning on the balls of his feet. "It's time to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

Bellamy walks forward, his feet scrunching along the grass as he approaches the tree. They've been unsuccessful in finding any shelter, and there's been visible frustration in the remaining survivors, so tired and hungry. Frustration that Bellamy can't solve, not with his words or actions.

He removes the axe from the bark. Jasper is still there when he turns around.

Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest. "I didn't ask you to - "

"Do you think Jaha is still alive?"

Bellamy swallows thickly. He's thought about it, of course he has. He's thought about the the questions surrounding Jaha's status since the day of the massacre. He tightens his hand around the handle of the axe, looking at the boy who stands across from him.

"Yeah," he confesses. "I do."

Jasper glances at his feet. "Do you think he's going to keep killing people?"

 _Yes_. "Maybe."

"Do you think he's going to kill us?" he presses.

Bellamy sighs. He walks towards him, twisting the axe cautiously between his fingers. He can see the fire that burns from the campsite in the distance, Octavia talking with Wick and Monty as Raven and Lincoln cook their food over the flames. The apprehension in Jasper's gaze is almost as heated and dangerous.

"He's a fucking coward," Bellamy tells him, and the words seem to relax him. "He wouldn't step foot outside the walls. He's probably in another God damn camp. Still governing lives."

 _Still ruining lives_ , he wants to say, but Jasper already looks drained with worrisome.

Jasper gulps, his eyes misting with emotion as he rubs his palms against his pants. He looks weak, exhausted, a craving for something larger than the days they're surviving. They've been outside for way too damn long.

He clears his throat. "Okay." He studies Bellamy for a moment, wet eyes scanning hard ones. "Well, if you're hungry . . . "

Bellamy nods. "Thanks."

And then Jasper smiles, his lips not reaching his eyes, leaving a burning sensation of doubt as he returns to the campfire.

* * *

 

iii.

She's been walking for hours.

Hours amongst hours of painful movement, of difficult steps taken by weakening legs. Her body caves inward, back curving and aching as she forces herself further into the woods, further into the unknown.

Further away from Mount Weather, from Cage and Finn.

Clarke whimpers as she continues to walk underneath the moonlight. Her breathing is shallow and unclear, clothes damp with blood and wounds stretching with each stride. If she doesn't find medicine, any medication or treatment, she'll fall into the depths of grimness, into the hells that will swallow her body below.

She'll die. She's dying.

Clarke releases a shuddering breath as she braces her against a tree. The pain has lessened, yet feeling nothing is worse than feeling pain. There's a numbness that spreads throughout her body, coaxing, waiting for her final moments, waiting to cover her skin with the longing memories of who she once was.

Once was, or once is, because there's so many different developments of Clarke Griffin.

And she doesn't like the Clarke Griffin she is now.

Her palms lean into the tree, feeling the rawness of the nature around her. There's an indent of bark that scratches her fingertips, and she narrows her eyes, her gaze searching the carving in the brightness of the moonlight.

She shakes her head when she see's the three words indented in front of her.

" _Follow the Reapers_ ," she whispers.

Clarke closes her eyes. She thinks of Cage's interrogation, the aggression in his voice when he demanded information on the Reapers. The frustration in his movements when he tortured her for her lack of knowledge.

_Reapers. Reapers, Reapers._

She tries to think more, tries to figure it out, but then her wounds start to pulse again, and she has to keep walking.

* * *

 

iv.

"You ready to go?"

Bellamy glances at Lincoln, his pack hung heavily over his shoulders. His expression displays a variation of eagerness, of growling stomachs and hungry throats, and Bellamy nods, gripping the axe in his hand.

"It's early morning," he says. He runs his fingers through his disheveled hair. Too long. "We should start hunting in the north."

Lincoln hums in agreement. He touches his pack, removing a dagger from one of the pockets and placing it on the inside of his belt. The creatures are fast in the woods, too fast to waste bullets. The knife is a clean kill. Almost delicious.

There's a cracking of branches, and Octavia approaches them, her knuckles rubbing against the shadow of her eyes. Her limp is a mere distraction now, still noticeable, only hurts a little when she runs. She yawns as she stands beside Lincoln, her hands lingering on his shoulder.

"You leaving now?" she asks. Her voice is hoarse with sleep. She's one of the only ones awake.

Lincoln grins at her. "We'll be back soon."

Octavia nods, curt and rigid, yet there's a hint of gratitude in her gaze. She leans forward, fingers clutching onto Lincoln's shirt as she presses her lips shortly against his, a simple image of a kiss between warriors.

Bellamy looks away. His heart feels suddenly heavy.

"You two grab us something big," Octavia mumbles as she pulls away from him. Her smile fades slightly when she looks at Bellamy, a sensitive grin replacing her features. "Be safe, big bro."

Bellamy touches a strand of her hair. "You too."

She grins, her gaze settling between the two men, bodies permanently stained with bruises and blood. She sighs as she returns to the campsite, her eyes scanning the sleeping bodies that lay silently on the grass. His little sister, taking on her own responsibility.

Lincoln breathes deeply as he turns to him. "Alright," he mumbles, fidgeting with his pack. "Let's go grab something big."

* * *

 

v.

They find another tree marked with carvings.

Lincoln rests his hand against the trunk, his fingers tracing the indent of the words. They're larger, more visible, maybe even more recent. They seem to have been carved more desperately, as if the message hasn't affected as many people as they'd hoped.

"Reapers," Lincoln whispers. He shakes his head, wiping a pile of sweat from his forehead. "Do you think it's a sanctuary?"

Bellamy shrugs his shoulders. "I think whatever it is, it's another chance."

"A good or bad chance?"

Bellamy doesn't respond. He doesn't fucking know.

He remembers the stories his father used to tell him of the outside, of the wildings and monsters who lived beyond the wall. He always assumed the stories were created for nightmares and for campfires, that the camp is only surrounded by the wall because they prefer to keep everyone in an organized system.

It never occurred to him, not until recently, that maybe monsters are real.

That maybe the Reapers are the monsters. Or maybe they're the heroes.

_Maybe Maybe Maybe._

_Reapers Reapers Reapers._

Bellamy breathes deeply. His brain hurts. They've been hunting for a couple of hours, the sun settling heavily on their skin, the responsibility weighing heavily on their minds. They haven't been able to capture an animal, not even a damn squirrel, and the atmosphere feels as if it's thickening in humidity.

"Reapers." Lincoln tastes the word once more on his tongue, shaking his head. Bellamy thinks his brain might be hurting, too. "They keep marking the damn trees. Seems as if they're - "

There's a rustling of leaves, a breaking of twigs, and Lincoln pulls out his dagger.

_Finally. Something big._

Bellamy swallows thickly, glancing at Lincoln. He gestures towards him, his fingers pointing to the source of the noise. "Round it from the other side," he mouths, and Bellamy nods, stepping away from him and further into the forest.

He's quiet, painfully silent as he walks along the padded ground. There's another noise, a whimper, and it's close, nearing his path of the woods.

He lifts his head, his eyes scanning the area over the tall grass. He sees indenting footprints in the soil, large and damp. There's a rustle again, echoing from behind a thickening tree, and he leans his back against the trunk.

Bellamy pulls out his dagger and turns towards the creature.

The glaring of the sun blurs his vision as he shifts his body. The rustling stops, the whimpers becoming laboured as the figure notices his presence. Bellamy grips his dagger, narrowing his eyes into the distance.

His chest tightens. His lungs become solid.

There's an image from his dreams, of blonde hair and blue eyes.

And blood.

Blood and blood, so much fucking blood.

" _Bellamy_ . . . "

The sound of his name overwhelms him, the voice of the words erupting a ringing inside his head. He can feel his pulse thickening beneath his flesh, pounding and harsh, creating the sensation of being alive.

It doesn't make sense. Is he alive?

The figure steps forward, and the sun shines heavily amongst that beautiful face, that beautiful girl.

Bellamy drops his dagger. "Clarke?"

She stands in front of him, an angel or a demon, her body caked in blood and gore. There's clothes that wrap around her shoulder and thigh, damp with crimson, and the fire in her gaze has faded into exhaustion.

"Blake," she whispers, and she sounds pained. She sounds real. "About damn time."

She breathes deeply, achingly, and collapses to the ground.

 _No_.

He might be dreaming, might be dead, but he runs towards her anyway.

There's a breaking in his chest and a heaviness in his legs as he lowers his body beside her. As he lowers his body beside Clarke. He touches her face, fingers clutching familiar skin, and she coughs, bright blood spilling from her lips.

The sun is prominent on his back and the blood is cold on his hands. And this is real.

Clarke is _alive_.

There's another cough, and her body shakes with torment in his arms. She cries out, those beautiful blue eyes clenching shut, and Bellamy feels those torturous emotions he thought he would never feel again.

He releases a shuddering breath and yells Lincoln's name.

"Bell," she mumbles. She sounds scared.

And he screams Lincoln's name even louder.

There's a response, and he can hear the returning of Lincoln's footsteps throughout the depths of the forest. Bellamy tightens his arms around Clarke's body, wiping his fingers across the crimson on her lips.

"Clarke." His voice is hoarse and drowning with despair. "You've got to stay awake. Come on. _Please_."

She mutters a soft apology, her eyes closing, and Lincoln appears before them as Bellamy screams her name.

* * *

 

vi.

Clarke's unconscious when they bring her to the campsite.

Her body is limp in Bellamy's arms, her face hidden in the crook of his neck. He holds her close to his chest, the ringing in his ears an increasing volume as Lincoln shouts for the survivors in the distance.

"Where's the first aid kit?" He keeps his hands on Clarke's wounds. "We need a fucking first aid kit!"

There's a rustling of bushes, and Octavia appears in the opening of the woods. The concern in her gaze fades into a blazing heat, a fire in her eyes, and she cups her mouth with her hands.

She shakes her head when she looks at Clarke's body. "How is - "

"Octavia!" Bellamy yells. "First aid kit. Now."

She nods viciously, running towards the depths of the forest. Bellamy follows, his arms aching with apprehension as he enters the campsite, the group of survivors standing abruptly when they notice girl in his arms.

"Holy shit," Jasper murmurs.

Raven pushes him to the side as she steps forward. She gasps, her lips curling inward at the amount of blood that surfaces her body. She presses her fingers against Clarke's wrist, and he can see her eyes shifting in focus.

She swallows thickly. "What happened?"

"I don't know." Bellamy lowers his voice. He's pleading now. "Just do _something_. Please."

Raven nods. She orders them to lay her down, and Bellamy lowers himself to the ground, the heat of the eyes around him an additional tension in his chest. Lincoln slowly peels his hands from Clarke's wounds, his fingers soaked with blood.

Octavia returns with the medical kit and kneels beside them.

She curves her body towards Clarke's mouth. "She's shallow," she whispers. She removes strands of blonde hair from her face. "Still breathing."

"Let's keep it that way," Raven replies.

She leans forward, removing the bandage of clothing that wraps around Clarke's shoulder and thigh. Blood pours openly from her wounds, and Bellamy almost cries in relief when he notices the depth, notices it could be worse.

But, fuck, she's lost so much blood, and the despair continues to grow in his stomach.

"We need to give her stitches," Raven states, and Octavia nods, searching through the medical kit. "Some drugs to help with pain and - shit."

Bellamy's chest tightens. "What?"

"Her cuts." She gestures towards the entrance of her injuries. "They're stab wounds."

Wick shake his head. "Who the fuck - "

There's a trembling of skin, a humming of protest as Clarke's body begins to move beneath their hold. Foam appears at the opening of her mouth, replacing the blood on her lips, and her frame violently shakes, her eyes still closed.

Raven pushes Clarke onto her side. "Fuck."

She says something about a seizure, something about having to act fast and carefully before she has another one. Something about praying, and hoping, something about life and death.

Bellamy doesn't remember. He stumbles, the ringing in his head reaching it's end as he collapses against a tree, sobbing into the bark.

_Clarke Clarke Clarke_

_Maybe Maybe Maybe_

Life is just so fucking cruel.

* * *

 

vii.

She lives. Clarke, somehow, by all prayers, fucking lives.

Bellamy sits on the hillside of the woods, his arms resting on his knees as the fire grows around him. The depths of the forest has since decreased with her screams, the sound of insects and moonlight replacing her torment.

It's been hours since he found her, and his brain is still blurry from the idea of loving her again. His Clarke, still breathing, still keeping his warmth as they sit amongst the remaining survivors, the people who kept her alive.

There was so much pain. So much blood. But she lived.

She was never dead. Was never gone.

Bellamy sighs. He glances at her sleeping form beside him, body still stained with the aftermath of blood and stitches. He doesn't know what Raven did, what Octavia did, but they saved her.

Saved her from a threat they didn't even know existed.

It terrifies him, the idea of something, someone inflicting harsh depths of pain on her. Someone beyond the walls, beyond the outskirts of the Ark. He looks at her, and she looks so content as she sleeps, so peaceful despite the chaos and destruction.

God he needs her.

"How is she?"

He lifts his head towards Octavia, who settles beside him on the grass. "She's alive," he tells her. And now, this time, it doesn't hurt to speak of her.

Octavia smiles. She glances at Clarke, her eye softening in the darkness as she analyzes the scars running along her skin. Octavia breathes deeply, wiping at the reflection of crimson on her hands.

She shakes her head. "She's a tough son of a bitch."

"Yeah," Bellamy mumbles.

"It's a God damn miracle."

Bellamy swallows thickly. A miracle. A God damn miracle. He remembers the last time he saw her, how sweet her lips tasted, remembers the moment he thought she was gone.

But she was always alive. His survivor. He should have known.

He grins, the first time in a while. "She's a God damn miracle."

Octavia raises her eyebrows. She nudges him, her shoulder bumping his, and he shakes his head. She was always aware of his feelings towards Clarke, even before he was. His little sister, so damn intelligent.

There's a howl of a wolf in the distance, and Octavia sighs, her smile fading.

"Bellamy," she murmurs, and she knows that tone, knows that look in her eyes. "Her wounds - "

"I know." His hands clench into fists, because, God, he can't even imagine what Clarke experienced before he found her. "I don't want to rush her," he says.

Octavia leans forward. "We have to know what we're up against."

Bellamy breathes deeply. There's so many damn questions, so many unanswered worries of life and the outside and the Reapers. So much concern of the person who stabbed Clarke, of the person who tried to kill her.

He clears his throat. "She'll tell us when she's ready," he whispers.

Because, with her, they have that now. They have time.

Octavia looks at him, her lips curving into a deep frown. She sighs heavily, leaning towards him to press a gentle kiss on his cheek. She wipes at his skin, and Clarke's blood is still visible on her fingers.

"Get some sleep," she tells him.

Bellamy nods, but he doesn't sleep, doesn't shift his gaze from Clarke's motionless body beside him.

_Clarke Clarke Clarke_

_You're home. I'm home._

* * *

 

viii.

She wakes up screaming in the late hours of the night.

It's loud, and torturous, her pleads for forgiveness echoing throughout the forest. She cries of regret, sorrow and pain, her arms shifting towards the sky as the nightmare overwhelms her.

Bellamy winces, crawling towards her. "Clarke." He leans over her and shakes her shoulders. " _Clarke_."

She opens her eyes, gasping for air as the sky appears above her. She jolts into a sitting position, and a hint of pain flashes her gaze at the rough movements. Desperate hands clutch at Bellamy's shirt, fingers digging into his skin.

"I didn't mean it," she whispers.

Bellamy touches her cheek. "It was just a dream."

Clarke shakes her head. She pulls him closer to her, her eyes streaking with terror, and he wants to minimize the fear, wants to make it all okay. He captures her face between his hands, wipes away the tears when they begin to fall from her gaze.

"I didn't have a choice." Her voice breaks with each word, with each breath. "I didn't want to, but I had to. I had to."

She closes her eyes, her mouth tightening as she leans into him. Her lips press against his skin as she presses her nose into the crook of his neck, and he shudders, from her revelation and her closeness, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.

"You're okay," he tells her, and she has to be, oh God she has to be. "You're okay. You're safe."

She releases a shuddering breath. "He - he was so - "

"It's alright." He runs his hand through the tangles in her blonde hair, tracing patterns onto her back. "You don't have to say it," he murmurs.

Clarke sniffles. She shifts her body, pulling away from him to lean her forehead against his. She's so close, so real, and he touches her cheek, feels the burning warmth beneath his skin despite the chilliness of the night.

He missed her. He missed her so damn much.

She closes her eyes, her chest rising as she sighs heavily. Her fingers touch the stitches on her shoulder through her shirt, and she whimpers, her other arm wrapping around his shoulders.

"Stay," she whispers. "Please."

Bellamy gazes at her, at the bruises forming her face and the despair staining her eyes. She looks like a broken warrior, tough yet fragile, and he hates himself, hates himself for not being there, for not replacing her torture with his own.

A feeling of regret glazes through him, and he knows, she knows, he won't let anything happen to her.

And so he nods, his forehead rubbing against hers. "I'll stay."

Clarke exhales deeply, her fingers clutching his hair as she lowers herself onto the ground. She lays underneath the stars, her body curling into him, sensing the sweet scent of his presence.

He watches as she falls to sleep, her breathing regulating, and he stays awake and thinks of the images scaring her memories.

His mother used to tell him that in order to prevent nightmares, he must slay his fears when he's awake.

And he will for her, he'll do any damn thing for her.

Because she's here now, still breathing, and that's reason enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys!!! That's the fourth chapter, I really hope you guys enjoyed it! And I hope you guys are excited to see these two lovebirds back together! I know I am. I missed writing about their desperate love for each other :)
> 
> What do you guys think the Reapers are? Do you think they're good or bad? You'll find out soon.
> 
> I'm planning to write maybe another four chapters of this instalment, before possibly writing a third and final instalment. I'll let you know if anything changes!
> 
> Anyways, enjoy your week, enjoy your life, and I'll probably be posting the next chapter again within a week. Love you guys, can't wait to read your reactions!
> 
> Happy Bellarking! xoxo.


	11. Nowhere Found II: V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Super sorry about updating this so late, I have had so many things going on, including a new job, another funeral (sadly) and, to be honest, a whole lot of writers block! But I'm back now:) Sorry if this seems a little off, but it took a while for me to get back into the story, so I did my best :)
> 
> Awesome to see how excited you are to see Bellamy and Clarke together again! I'm sure you missed them as much as I did :) Also, rocky roads ahead for the two, so just a warning it's not going to be all rainbows and butterflies for them yet. But they'll eventually get there!
> 
> Again, before I begin, I want to personally thank each of you for reading, favouriting and commenting. It seriously inspires me. I hope you guys enjoy the fifth chapter of Nowhere Found II :) !

i.

_Love is weakness._

That's what she tells herself. _Love is weakness._

Love, of all its limited strength and glory, causes only pain. It restores a lost faith inside each exhausted soul, ignites lost memories of a life that once was and a life that could be.

It destroys people. It destroyed _her_.

It crept into her heart and forced her to hope. It caused her grief, and suffering, created the blood on her skin and the nightmares in her mind.

She thinks of love, and she thinks of Bellamy, thinks of the endless trail of corpses behind him.

She thinks of Finn. Remembers the knife in her hands.

Remembers the blood.

Clarke shifts, her body stiff with hardened crimson and aching muscles as she lifts herself from the ground. She looks at the body beneath her, looks at Bellamy, his expression so troubled in his slumber.

He's real, he's breathing, and it makes her want to scream, makes her want to rip out her heart and the feelings that contain it.

_Love is weakness._

Clarke breathes deeply. It's been a couple of days since she found the remaining survivors, her days mostly spent with sleep and pain. They told her of their plan to find more people, more allies, and when Clarke has recovered, her bones not still aching with torment, then they'll continue their search.

She tries to convince them she can walk, but they refuse to believe her.

She glances at the sleeping bodies around her, so few alive amongst the countless fatalities of the Ark. There's so many questions, so much to discuss, and she closes her eyes, limping further into the forest.

She hisses at the movement of her wounds, the stretching of her stitches. Her body gains torture with each step, with each breath, her blood pounding feverishly as she stumbles across the ground.

She lowers herself onto the dirt, pulling at the roots of the grass.

"Clarke?"

Clarke clenches her fists, turning towards the voice. She missed that voice.

Octavia stands in front of her, her arms crossing over her chest. "What are you doing?" she questions.

She bites on her lip. She removes her fingers from the grass, rubbing her hands against her bandages. They're soaked with blood and sweat, her stitches thick underneath her wraps. She shouldn't be walking, shouldn't even be moving, and Octavia knows that.

"There's so much noise. I can't think, " Clarke says.

Octavia breathes deeply. "Yeah," she mumbles, kicking at the dirt around her feet. "Sure."

Clarke sighs. She remembers the last time she saw Octavia, nearing her death with a bullet in her leg. She remembers the months leading to the massacre, thinks of her courage and her loyalty. She lent Clarke her home, shared her bed and her food.

"I'm really glad you're not dead," Octavia murmurs.

Clarke nods. "You, too."

Octavia smiles. She walks towards her, sitting beside Clarke on the grass. Her eyes scan the bruises and cuts on her body, and she wonders how many more wounds are hiding beneath her clothes. Wonders how many more people they killed to still be alive.

She sighs, and Clarke hears the words before Octavia even speaks them.

"What happened?"

Clarke swallows thickly. Finn's face flashes before her. Cage's lips press against her neck. A river suffocates her throat.

There's a cough, and a breaking of sound that echoes throughout the forest. It's harsh, and violent, the desperation of the noise piercing through the woods. Octavia wraps her arms around Clarke, hushing her, and she realizes what the sound is. Where the sound is coming from.

It's her. She's crying.

"Sh," Octavia whispers. She threads her fingers through Clarke's hair, rocking her in her lap. "It's okay. You're safe now."

Clarke's tears are hot against her cheeks, and she can't even breathe.

She's not safe. None of them are.

_Love weakened us all._

* * *

 

ii.

The clouds begin to darken when they return to the campsite.

They stumble onto the ground, Octavia's arm wrapped firmly around Clarke's waist. She pulls her closer as Clarke curses at the movement of her wounds, her stitches stretching along her skin.

"Almost there," Octavia grunts.

Clarke nods. Sweat settles against her forehead despite the chill of the surrounding wind. They've been gone for hours, Clarke's been _crying_ for hours, and the weather synchronizes with her anguish.

She wonders what life would be like without anguish. Maybe she'll never know.

There's a breaking of tension as they enter the campsite, the remaining survivors identifying them in relief. They've been worried, Clarke's aware, and she closes her eyes as she hears the stomping of feet, angry and disappointed.

"What the hell, O?"

Clarke opens her gaze. Bellamy Blake stands in front of them, the fire blazing in his eyes.

Octavia sighs heavily, her hand tightening around Clarke's waist. The group turns away from them, and Raven shares an understanding nod before shifting towards Wick, assisting him in a scatter of mechanical tools.

"We're fine," Octavia reassures. "Just a little catch up."

Bellamy scoffs. "In the middle of the fucking woods?"

Clarke winces. The irritation in his words is evident in his tone, his voice low as he growls. She's aware of the dangers that inhabit the forest, aware of the consequences, and she steps forward, her breathing laboured.

"I needed some space," she tells him. His eyes lock with hers, and it makes her weak again. "She followed me."

Bellamy stares at her. It's so hard to think when he's staring at her like that. He's had her entranced in his gaze since she first witnessed it, and that feeling, that forbidden feeling, begins to stir inside her.

He looks at Octavia, and she can breathe again. "Just tell someone next time."

Octavia nods. "Right. Sorry."

Bellamy rubs his forehead, the skin stretching across his fingers. She wonders of the nightmares in his mind, wonders if they match hers, if he's seen as much pain and destruction as she has.

She thinks of the blood on her hands and Finn's motionless body. She is a nightmare.

Octavia sighs and tilts her neck, her gaze settling onto Lincoln in the distance. She turns and presses a small kiss against Clarke's cheek, her arms removing from her waist.

"I have to talk to Lincoln," she says. She glances at Bellamy, who looks at his feet. "I'll see you later."

Clarke swallows thickly when Octavia steps away from her, brushing past her brother as she walks towards Lincoln. The clouds seem darker and the air seems thicker as Clarke stands in front of Bellamy, his locked jaw and strong shoulders a distant memory of the past.

He looks at her then. And it's hard to breathe again.

She remembers the last time she saw him, his eyes filled with passion and loyalty as she pulled away from him, their lips wet with the taste of each other. There's a coldness in his eyes now, a security in them that reflects her own.

Clarke fidgets with the hem of her shirt. "I'm sorry," she tells him.

She is. She's sorry for everything.

She's sorry for agreeing to the rebellion, for allowing him to hope for a lost future that would never be found. She's sorry for loving him, for needing him, for waking up with nightmares and searching for his embrace in the darkness.

He's so beautiful and alive in front of her, and she shakes her head. _Love is weakness_ , she reminds herself. _Love is weakness_.

She shuffles her feet. It's getting harder to stand. "I should probably go - "

"Clarke."

She blinks, her eyes widening at the softness of his tone. She didn't think anything could be soft anymore, something angelic. The vulnerability in his eyes replaces the bitterness, and then he's Bellamy Blake, the man who saved her with words and looks and kisses.

The man who destroyed her with love.

"You don't have to tell me anything," he whispers. He sounds so fragile. "About what happened. And I know something did, something bad."

Clarke releases a shuddering breath. "Bellamy - "

He clenches his jaw and steps towards her, the closeness of his body radiating her. She can feel the rapidness of her heart, the quickening of her breath, and the way he looks at her, almost sadly, reminds her of why she's still alive.

 _He's_ the reason she's still alive.

"Don't push me away. Please."

 _Fuck_.

The sky opens above them, breaking the clouds as the rain begins to fall. They land on her skin, on Bellamy's face, his hair that is getting too long and his eyes that are affecting her too much.

 _Weakness, weakness._ She needs to remember.

The rain is becoming thicker, and she shudders, from the cold and the heat of his gaze. She can't help him, can't return the sentiments of what they once had, of what she was surviving for.

The Griffin girl. Who is she anymore?

"Bellamy! Clarke!" Octavia shouts for them through the woods, and Bellamy doesn't even flinch. "We have to get under the trees!"

Clarke breathes deeply. The storm is growing, as is the torment in her wounds, and she needs to sit, or lay, close her eyes and allow herself to sleep. The rain is heavy on her body, and she tilts her head towards the remaining survivors, huddled into the depths of the forest.

"We should go," she tells him over the padding of water.

There's a burst of lightning and thunder as she turns away from him, and she's thankful for not seeing the pain of his expression.

* * *

 

iii.

The storm continues for days.

They spend their mornings in the depths of the woods, their afternoons covered in leaves and fallen branches. The rain becomes a rhythm on their skin, fresh and constant, beating against them in the humidity.

The trees become their campsite. Each warm body becomes their home.

There hasn't been a drop of water for hours, only dark clouds and grey skies circling above them. Monty assures them the storm has passed, that the sun will rise tomorrow, strong and desperate in its return.

"Clarke." He turns to her, the group huddled around a campfire in the night. "You okay to walk?"

Clarke nods. Her wounds have become distant reminders, her body able in it's movements and actions. Raven and Octavia spent the days of the storm tending to her, not asking questions despite the curiosity in their eyes.

She thinks that might be worse. Their silence makes her think more, makes her fearful of the truth.

"Good," Lincoln hums. He has an arm wrapped around Octavia, rubbing her shoulders. "We should cover some ground tomorrow. Try to find a shelter. Maybe some people in it."

Jasper throws a stick into the fire. "We'll never find a fucking shelter."

Clarke swallows thickly. She remembers reading of this in Ark History, of how the losing side of the war, their side, became lost in their failures, became doubtful in their survival. They spoke the same words as Jasper, wore the same expressions of the citizens of the Ark.

Clarke interlocks her hands. She's so hungry.

Octavia stirs beside Lincoln, leaning forward. "Jasper - "

"We've been looking for weeks," he seethes. That's the first experience of the group she has heard, other than their constant discussion of Reapers. Clarke shudders at the memory. "We aren't going to - "

There's a humming of disagreement, and Jasper stops, his throat closing tightly. He turns towards Bellamy, his head downcast as their eyes connect, and Clarke recognizes the fire in them, recognizes the fight.

She misses those eyes. Those words. She hasn't spoken to him for days.

She's breaking. Weak.

Bellamy snaps a branch in his hands. "We're _survivors_ ," he tells them, addressing the group. His gaze lands on Clarke. "Everything we lost, everything we've done, we've done to survive."

She see's Cage, see's Finn and the Mountain Men. And she understands.

She didn't escape Mount Weather to survive, didn't overcome her wounds to survive. She didn't do anything to survive. The reasons she did them is looking at her, eyes bright and matching the fire. He's her reason for everything.

 _Love is weakness_ , she repeats.

And she's so fucking weak.

* * *

 

iv.

They begin their search for shelter two days later.

It's hot, humid, the sun releasing rays of heat upon them as they walk further into the woods. They've been travelling for hours, sweat and exhaustion staining their skin, sticking to the air as their hair sticks to their neck.

Clarke sighs, pushing strands of hair behind her ear.

Her body has mended, the stab wounds only an additional nightmare with the healing of her flesh. She wonders if her heart will heal, if she'll portray the same qualities as Jasper, frustrated and tense, almost like giving up.

Clarke shakes her head. He won't give up. Bellamy won't let him give up.

She glances at him ahead of her, guiding the group around a fallen tree in their path. His curls are damp and his footsteps are determined. He's the leader of the rebellion, in and outside of the Ark.

Bellamy won't let anyone give up. Won't let _her_ give up. Even though, only sometimes, her nightmares involve the gesture that she already has.

Clarke rolls her neck, tries to distinguish the difference between reality and dreams. It's getting harder and harder to do.

"Hey, you." Raven bumps her shoulder with hers, her tanned skin already darker. "How you holding up?"

Clarke shrugs. "Fine."

Raven nods. Her words don't convince anyone, not even herself, and Clarke wipes at the sweat on her cheeks, her skin becoming warmer. She glances at Raven, their eyes connecting in a silent understanding.

"Sorry." Her gaze softens, brown and large. "That was a stupid question."

Clarke shakes her head. She doesn't deserve any apologies.

Raven sighs, adjusting the pack on her shoulders. There's the movement of knifes, of daggers and axes that huddle inside her bag, and Clarke winces at the sound. Her hands clench, and she remembers the feeling of blood on her skin.

"Can I ask you something?"

Clarke looks at Raven, her fingers tense around her palm. "Sure."

Raven chews on her bottom lip. She's seen the emotion in her eyes, seen the desperation in them since Clarke returned, her glare a mixture of understanding and concern. Clarke swallows thickly, her hands growing cold at the apprehension in Raven's expression.

She sighs, a long and nervous breath.

"Did you find Finn?"

Clarke grits her teeth. The blood on her fingers begin to warm her skin, the remaining substance of Finn Collins staining her memories. She releases a shuddering exhale, and her hands shake, her wounds pulsing beneath her clothes.

"No." Her voice wavers. She feels dizzy. "I never got to him."

Raven narrows her eyebrows. "What happened?"

And then she thinks of the Mountain Men, of Finn yelling for her to turn around, to watch out, to be aware of their presence in her house. She thinks of Mount Weather, of Cage, and the blood on her hands becomes thicker.

"It's a long story," she says. _Don't ask any more questions. Not yet._

Raven nods. She places a reassuring hand on Clarke's shoulder, and she hates herself. "I'm sorry for what happened," she says, and oh God, she really hates herself. "I'm here when you're ready to talk about it."

Clarke frowns. When she reveals what happened, if she ever does, she wonders if Raven will hate her as much as she does.

* * *

 

v.

They find a shelter on the fourth day.

Wick notices it, the distance of a large sign with unrecognizable words. An unrecognizable field. It stands isolated amongst the tall grass, the wood faded with red paint and years of abandonment.

Bellamy narrows his eyes. "Come on."

They walk towards the board, their weapons raised. The gun is tight in Clarke's hands, the metal cool on her fingers in the sunlight. She walks beside Octavia, behind Bellamy and Lincoln, silent and restrained.

They approach the sign, their eyes widening at the refuge attached to it.

"Holy shit," Jasper gapes.

A long building stretches amongst the forest. It's low, established with multiple doors and windows, it's exterior rusted with the roof caving at the corners. There's vines, covering the walls of the outside, attaching to the edges.

Clarke covers her mouth with her hands. She hears Raven release a cry of relief.

"Sh." Bellamy turns to them, gesturing for Lincoln and Wick. "Scan the area."

They nod, stepping around the field and deeper into the woods. They line the perimeter of the building, their feet scrunching against the piles of leaves, the trees blocking the strong rays of the sunlight.

Monty shakes his head in disbelief. "It looks like this place hasn't been touched since the war."

Octavia exhales slowly, lowering her weapon. She walks towards the sign and brushes the dirt from the letters, blowing on the faded words. She traces her fingers along the wood, a glimpse of a smile on her expression.

" _Morgan's Motel_ ," she reads. "It's a fucking _motel_."

Jasper and Monty laugh in relief. _A fucking motel._

Bellamy and Lincoln return from the yard, their bodies covered in vines. Wick follows behind them, his lips turned in a grin as she approaches Raven, pressing a kiss against her cheek.

"It's clear," Lincoln announces.

Bellamy clears his throat. "Seems like a good place to stay."

Clarke chews on her bottom lip. A home. She glances at Raven, who steps forward, her arms crossing over her chest. She tilts her head towards Bellamy, the strands of her hair damp and curling.

"What about the Reapers?"

Clarke winces. Cage's lips are cold against her skin. "We don't know who those people are," Bellamy states. He ruffles fallen leaves from his hair. "It could be a trap for all we know. The wrong type of survivors."

Clarke huffs. She thinks of the desperation in Cage's voice, his apprehension in needing information on the Reapers. Whatever they are, whoever they are, they seem to be a threat against Mount Weather.

"Don't you want to know?" she asks.

Bellamy looks at her, those damn eyes. He narrows his eyes, considering, being careful with his words. It's been days since he directed a sentence towards her, and her stomach fills with warmth in its return.

"We're not ready for that. Not yet." He turns towards the group, the remaining survivors of a massacre. "Out here, at least we get to live. At least we get to choose how we live."

Clarke swallows thickly, thinks of her sins and her failures.

She never had a choice.

* * *

 

vi.

They eventually settle into the motel. A fucking motel. So many painful weeks stranded in the woods, desperate for shelter and food, and they find a motel, a large and long building with separate rooms.

Octavia says their prayers have been answered. Clarke thinks it's just God's pity.

They gather around a campfire, huddled beside each other in the warm air. The sky is scattered with stars in the night, the moon shinning rays of light upon them. It's similar to the nights spent on Clarke's porch, when her parents were still alive, when her morality was alive.

"It's beautiful," Raven whispers. Wick wraps his arm around her shoulder.

Clarke breathes deeply, her chest tight as she thinks of their conversation. The guilt is heavy upon her, haunting her as it creeps into the depths of her mind. It follows her, takes over her thoughts and her dreams, takes over everything.

She looks at Bellamy. It took _everything_.

"Clarke?" Octavia touches her arm. "You okay?"

She looks at her, the fire in her eyes sizzling to concern. Fuck. They worry about her, and she doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve the motel, or Bellamy's protection, doesn't deserve anyone to care.

Clarke shakes her head. She feels dizzy.

"I was with Finn."

There's an immediate silence; painful and long. Octavia tightens her hold on her wrist.

Clarke swallows thickly as the remaining survivors turn towards her. There's the similar look of confusion in their eyes, of curiosity, and she releases a shuddering breath, releases the guilt and the truth.

"During the massacre, I went back to get him." Her fingers dig into her palms. She wants to bleed, to feel a different pain than this one. "The Mountain Men were there. Took us hostage in a Prisoner of War Camp in their army base. There's enough weapons there to kill everyone on this damn planet."

Lincoln glances at Bellamy. There's a rage in his eyes that dims the burning fire.

Clarke exhales deeply, the memories returning. "They started . . . they wanted to know if we had any information on the Reapers. Finn never recovered from it. But I . . . " Tears sting her eyes, and she wipes at her cheek. "After they were finished with me, they took me back to my cell and I - killed the two guards. I killed them and we escaped through the caves."

She breathes shakily. There's so much noise inside her head, so much damage and weakness. The group stares at her in disbelief, Octavia's fingers stroking the redness of her wrist.

Clarke wants to pull away. Doesn't deserve it.

She looks at Bellamy, the rage in his glare softening to desperation. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, the anger not yet leaving his body, not yet leaving his instinct.

Raven shakes her head. "Where's Finn?"

Clarke chews on her bottom lip. She hears his whimpers in the night, feels his loosening grip around her, the blood sliding from his flesh. She feels the sensation of plunging the knife into him, of killing him.

"He's dead."

There's another moment of silence. A moment of tension. She sees the fury fill Raven's expression.

"He attacked me." Clarke struggles to explain, her chest aching and her tears releasing. "I had to."

Raven stares at her. The air is thick around them, and it's hard to breathe. She leans forward, removing Wick's arm and rising from the ground. There's the shadow of wetness on her cheeks, and Clarke feels cold again.

Raven points an accusing finger at her. " _Fuck you_."

Clarke shakes her head, feeling the guilt. Feeling the blood and the death. She wouldn't have done it if she had a choice, she wouldn't have done it if she didn't have to. She had to.

Bellamy rises. So does Octavia.

"Raven - "

"This is what you call a hero, huh?" Raven steps towards her, and Clarke lifts herself from the ground, desperate. "As soon as you fucking joined the rebellion, bad things began to happen. Bad things that you caused."

Clarke swallows her sobs. "Raven - "

"Hey." Bellamy shifts in front of her, placing his hands on Raven's shoulders. "That's enough."

Raven shoves his hands from her, and Wick stands, staying behind. Monty and Jasper watch in apprehension, the fire burning out, the spark of the rebellion, the loyalty of their group shattering.

"Griffin girl," she slithers. "Your parents would _hate_ you."

Clarke blinks. There's a rumble in her chest, a hatred she's never felt. She thinks of her parents, what they would think, their thoughts and opinions frozen in their grave.

Lincoln shakes his head, and Octavia presses a hand to her mouth. The silence is deafening.

Bellamy steps forward. "Clarke - "

Clarke gulps, her lips raw. She looks at Raven, the rage and torment in her expression, and she turns away from her, from the campfire, her feet dragging towards her room at the motel.

A fucking motel.

Another home destroyed.

* * *

 

vii.

Clarke sits on the crumbling sheets of the mattress, her head tucked between her knees.

She feels cold, the remaining walls of the room extracting her warmth. There aren't blankets, no pillows, no one to gather for heat. The distance of the campfire is far from her room, the evening breeze a permanent shiver.

She rubs her hands against her arms. Still bitter.

It's been an hour since she revealed the events following the massacre, since Raven cursed her existence. Her ears ring with the reminder of her words, so spiteful and full of hatred, raging despite the broken features of her expression.

_Your parents would hate you._

Clarke winces. She doesn't deny it.

There's a knock on her door, the sound echoing throughout the emptiness of her room. She sighs, expecting Octavia's frantic comfort or Wick's rapid apologies, their concern deepening the truth of Raven's remark.

Clarke reaches for the lock and pulls the door open.

Bellamy stands in front of her, his hands shoved into his pockets.

"Bellamy?"

He stares at her, his eyes focused on the previous stains on her cheeks, at the tears that disappeared beneath them. The darkness is dim around him, indicating the elimination of the campfire and the people surrounding it.

"Raven," he mumbles. He shakes his head in refusal. "She didn't mean what she said."

Clarke frowns. "You don't need to defend her. I get it."

She steps away from the doorframe, allowing the wood to swing. Bellamy crosses the threshold and enters her room, closing the door behind him. There's an added warmth in the room now, decreasing the coldness surrounding her.

Bellamy rubs his forehead. "Clarke - "

"My parents fought to save lives," she hisses. He needs to understand. He needs to know she doesn't deserve his care. "They returned lives, and I have taken them. They hated people like me."

"It isn't the same. You know that."

Clarke shakes her head. It is the same. She killed the soldiers in the same execution, the same way the soldiers killed the citizens. She entered the outside walls the way the soldiers entered the war, though, instead of war, Clarke was fighting for something else.

Bellamy gazes at her. Something else.

Clarke leans against the wall, the noise in her head becoming dangerous. Becoming weak. She rests the back of her head against the wood, staring at the ceiling, at the direction of her parents.

"I am responsible for so many people's death," she whispers.

"You did what you had to do."

Clarke looks at him, at the desperation in his gaze. She chews on her lip, feels the blood enter her mouth, the reminder of why she shouldn't touch him, why he shouldn't touch her.

"I killed people, Bellamy. _You_ killed people." She releases a shuddering breath, because the lies are becoming too much. "That's not something we have to. That's something we chose to do."

Bellamy steps towards her. "That's what we chose to do to survive. To live."

Clarke scoffs, closing her eyes. She thinks of the consequences of the lives she took, of the cost she paid to survive another day. She exhales longingly, opens her eyes to meet Bellamy's sharp ones.

"To live." She shakes her head. "For what? To die another day? To lose more people and watch them suffer?"

There's the clatter of footsteps, the shift in the cool breeze, and Bellamy is in front of her. His chest grazes hers, heat spreading through her despite the rise of her bitterness. His eyes display the fire, waiting for her to destroy it.

"Don't say that." His mouth is so close to hers. His breath against her face. "Don't say it's not worth it."

Clarke leans forward, matching his blaze. "It isn't worth it. The only thing that's fucking worth it is _you_."

She shoves him then, her palms pushing against his shoulders. He stumbles, his eyes blaring in the sensation of a flame, orange and red and bright under the stars.

He stares at her. And she stares at him, the dawn of tears forming around her eyes.

God, he makes her so weak.

"Can't you fucking see that, Bellamy?" She steps towards him and jabs a finger into his chest. "This doesn't make me a survivor, this doesn't make me a fucking hero. It makes me selfish."

Bellamy swallows thickly. "Clarke - "

"Everything I've done, every choice I made, every _life_ I took . . . it was all for you." She sniffles, doesn't bother to prevent the tears from drowning her. "It was all to see you again."

The fire in his eyes is smouldering, burning into her like the truth of her words. The truth of her feelings for him, so strong, yet they make her weak, force her into decisions she shouldn't make.

She looks at him, the pain overwhelming her.

"Falling in love with you was the most selfish thing I've ever done."

Bellamy's breath hitches. Quiet and trembling under his expression. She pushes another finger against him, and he touches her shoulder, his thumb running along her shirt.

It feels like forever since he touched her. A long damn time.

He moves a strand of hair from her face. "Clarke."

She whimpers, pulling away from him. She pushes him again, her arms weak despite the warmth of her body. He doesn't move, doesn't even flinch, and it makes her shove him harder.

"I love you." Another push. And another. "I love you, and I hate you for it."

Clarke sobs, shattering.

"I hate you." Push. Shove. Punch. "I _hate_ you. I hate - "

Bellamy grabs her arms and folds them against her. She cries out, refusing, her body squirming as he pulls her against him, wrapping her into his embrace and leaning his forehead onto hers.

His lips graze her temple, her hair, and she gives in, collapses against him.

She bawls into the protection of him, clinging to him as he whispers words of comfort into her ear. Just like before, when the world wasn't ending and their love wasn't dangerous.

"Clarke," he murmurs, her name a prayer.

She cries, knowing God won't hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the new chapter! I hope you guys enjoyed it hehe! I am so sorry for the wait, and, unfortunately, it might be another 1 - 2 weeks before my next post, since I have a wedding and a small weekend vacation coming up! But I hope this will last until then (don't worry, Bellarke will reconcile, I promise)
> 
> Also, I am so overwhelmed with the announcement of my nomination for a Bellarke Fanfiction Award. I wasn't even aware this was happening, but being notified that the fans voted for this story makes me happier than you can imagine. You guys are amazing, and thank you for the nomination, and I hope you guys vote :)
> 
> Since this is a nice surprise, I'm going to give you a surprise! There will be one more instalment of Nowhere Found after this one! Yay :)
> 
> Okay guys, I hope you have an amazing weekend. Happy Bellarking! xoxo.
> 
> Love ya.


	12. Nowhere Found II: VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys! Here it is. The new, updated, (full) chapter of Nowhere Found! I know I promised you I would post on Sunday but I couldn't seem to stop writing. Again I am so sorry for the late post, but as I explained before, there has been so much going on in my life right now and I haven't been able to focus lately. But hopefully it'll be better with time this time!
> 
> Anyways, this chapter is pretty brutal in violence. So you've been warned. Can't wait to hear what you guys think, and enjoy this new chapter!

i.

_Love is weakness._

That's what Clarke muttered to him in the night, weary and oblivious in her slumber.

"Bellamy," she whispered, clinging to the mattress. " _Weakness_."

He's never heard her speak those words before, her lips mumbling through her tormented expression. She balled her hands into fists, her eyes dried with tears, cursing love and the heartbreak it carries.

It hurt. Seeing her like that. And so he held her in his arms, led her to the bed, and he would give anything, do anything to look at her and see those eyes from before, the ones filled with passion.

Now, her eyes are plagued with darkness.

A darkness that came from loving him. A darkness that came from the death and the suffering and the loss.

He remembers. He felt that too.

"How is she?"

Bellamy glances above him. His hands are clenched into fists as he sits amongst a rock, facing away from the chaos of the motel. Octavia stands in front of him, her arms crossing her chest.

He thinks about Clarke, about the darkness.

"She's fine," he tells her.

Octavia bites on her bottom lip. "You don't have to lie to me, Bell."

Bellamy sighs, digging his nails into his palms.

"What do you want me to say, O?"

Octavia breathes deeply. His sister knows him, knows Clarke, has spent almost a year fighting alongside them. She's heard their screams before, seen them cry and curse. She knows the routine.

She sits beside him on the rock, the sun beginning to outline the trees above them.

"I keep thinking about it, what she went through," she says. "What she saw. All I know is that, if anyone can get through this, it's Clarke."

Bellamy drops his head. "How?"

"She's tough. Like her parents." She reaches forward and touches his hair. "And she has you."

He closes his eyes. He see's Clarke, the woman he kissed before she lost herself, the taste of her lips on his before she was captured. He see's the exhaustion in her expression whenever she looks at him, the grief and confusion.

"Yeah."

She tucks a curl behind his ear. "She loves you, Bell."

"I think that's the problem," he says.

Octavia tilts her head. "Why?"

Bellamy exhales. He remembers the days spent with her in the Ark, when they barely knew each other, when their only similarity was their hatred towards Jaha. He remembers the fire in her eyes, the heat and iciness in her blue depths.

He misses those colours. He misses her.

"Because I love her, too." He swallows thickly and when he opens his eyes he only sees black and white. "And sometimes love can make us do horrible things."

 _Love is weakness_. He gets it. Love hurts.

Octavia looks at him. Her gaze registers his response, her pupils calculating the sense of his words. She nods curtly and rests her hand on his shoulder, the sun beginning to appear above them.

"We've all done horrible things. That doesn't make us good people, I know that," she claims, leaning into him. "But a life without love?" She shakes her head. "That's the worst punishment I could ever have."

Bellamy swallows thickly, because love is painful, and it is selfish, but it's worth it.

_"The only thing that's fucking worth it is you"._

And Clarke will always be worth it. She'll be worth every death, every tormenting experience he's ever encountered and will have to encounter. She'll never burden him, not with her tears or her nightmares, not with the blood on her hands and the blood on his.

He thought she was dead. He lived days thinking he'd never see her again.

That was when he was weak. Because of the loss and the torture. Loving her is what made him strong.

"I need her, O."

Octavia breathes deeply. Even the air feels thick around them. She presses into him and wraps her arms around him, embracing him in the similar way of their childhood, when he would comfort her when they were younger.

She lines her lips onto his shoulder. "I know."

And she continues to hold him for a while, even when the wolves begin to howl throughout the woods, awakening the reminder of chaos around them.

* * *

 

ii.

Bellamy enters her room when the sun appears above them.

She's sitting at the edge of the bed, her knees pulled to her chest and her hair loose around her shoulders. She rests her chin between her legs and glances at him when he closes the door behind him.

"Hey."

Clarke bites on her bottom lip. "Hey."

Bellamy breathes deeply. Her voice still sounds hoarse from the crying, her eyes still swollen from the tears. He walks towards her and sits beside her on the mattress, steadying the pile of fruit in his hands.

He holds them in front of her. "You should eat."

She looks at him, and for a moment he thinks she'll refuse, curse him for accusing her of being weak. But she doesn't. Her hands are smooth when she plucks a grape from his palm, bringing it towards her mouth.

"Thanks," she whispers.

Bellamy nods.

It's quiet.

Clarke tightens her arms around her legs, hostile, cold. She seems so far away. Far away in a place where he can't reach her, where he can't even see her, the darkness in her eyes a reflection of what's inside. He thinks of last night, of the words she spit at him.

_Love. Selfish. Weakness._

_Fuck_.

He analyzes the scars that stain her skin, the cuts and bruises that linger. There's scratches on her arms, small wounds on her ankles, countless injuries that remain inside, where the darkness expands.

He notices the rope burns on her wrists. Raw and jagged with violation.

Bellamy closes his eyes. "Cage." He swallows thickly; he doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to know. "Did he - "

"No," she mumbles, and when he opens his eyes, she's looking at him. "Almost, but no."

Bellamy exhales deeply. Her answer should relieve him, rid him of any burning reminders of the past. But it doesn't. It only furthers his guilt. It only deepens his need for her when she stares at him, the darkness evident behind her blue depths.

He wants to reach for her, to hold her, but he knows he can't.

"I'm sorry, Clarke."

She looks at him, the rim around her eyes a dull grey. He expects more blackness, more reminders of the past he left her in, but there's nothing, not even a glance of her icy blue depths.

"Don't be," she tells him.

"I am." His tone is stern, a hint of shakiness. "I should have gone with you the day the day of the massacre. I should have been there."

"Bell - "

"You went through that," he whispers, and he can feel his throat clogging with emotion, "and I wasn't there."

It's silent. Nothing except the rapidness of his beating heart.

He shakes his head, the weight of her pain making it difficult to breathe. He see's the blood on her when he found her in the forest, the bruises on her skin when he brought her back to camp. He see's the fear in her eyes, vivid and real.

He see's the girl he met at the Ark, and the girl sitting beside him now.

"Bellamy."

He winces at the sound of her voice, soft and crusted in regret. His hands grip the edge of the mattress, and he turns to her, watching her watch him in the dimness of the room. She looks nervous, and his eyes soften when he notices her quivering lips.

"If you were at Mount Weather. If what happened to Finn happened to you - " She closes her eyes, exhaling sharply. "I thought it would be better, at first. Having you there. But I was wrong."

She leans forward, and he can see the glimmer of tears in her eyes, that glimmer of her.

"I needed someone to come home to," she whispers, as if she were afraid to speak it. "I needed to come home."

Home. He forgot how that word felt, forgot what it meant until now.

Bellamy places the pile of fruit on the mattress, and reaches for her, and not because he wants to, because he needs to. His fingers graze across her cheek, and he can almost feel the walls around her collapsing at his touch.

He clears his throat. "You did. You made it."

"For how much longer?"

He shakes his head. He doesn't have the answer, doesn't have the power to know how many days they have left. But he doesn't tell her that, he only holds her tighter, her breath catching when he cups her face between his hands.

"You're safe now," he whispers, desperate. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't tell me that," she whimpers.

"I'm _not_."

Clarke releases a shuddering breath, and it burns at his chest, at his lungs. Her hands grip the hair on his neck, and she remembers the knife she once held before killing Finn, remembers her promise to him that she would keep him safe.

No one can promise anything anymore. Not even hope, not even life.

"Bellamy." She closes her eyes, allowing the tears to spill onto her cheeks. " _Please_. Don't tell me that."

And he isn't able to tell her anything after that, not even those comforting words, the ones he told her so many times back at the Ark. He isn't able to tell her because she buries her face in his chest, and the sobs she creates are too numbing to say anything else.

* * *

 

iii.

They emerge from the room in the afternoon, shy and gentle in their footsteps.

The sun is brighter than she expected, exposing her to the group as they work amongst the motel. Jasper and Monty place traps along the boundaries, Lincoln placing vines across areas where they shouldn't enter. They work tastefully, determined, creating a home.

It baffles her somehow. How they can move on.

"Blake." Wick calls towards them. He gestures for Bellamy to come forward, steadying a wooden log in his grasp. "Give me a hand with this. We should cut them for fires."

That's when they notice her, observing them as they work underneath the moving clouds. They simple glance at her, offer her knowing smiles and apologetic nods - as if they forgive her, as if they don't want to see her burn.

It should make her feel better. But it doesn't.

Bellamy rests a hand on her shoulder. "I'll see you for dinner."

Clarke nods. Her eyes are stiff from tears, and she feels the warmth leave her body when he steps away from her, walking towards Wick. She hates how much she still wants him, still needs him, even after anything and everything.

Love is weakness. But so is loneliness.

There's a breaking of twigs, and Clarke looks up to find Octavia walking towards her. Her shirt is covered in dirt and mud, the skin underneath her cheeks coasted with sweat as she approaches.

She stops, standing in front of her with piercing eyes.

"Hey."

Clarke swallows thickly. "Hey."

"You okay?"

She looks away. She doesn't know how to answer that.

"I know you, Griffin." Octavia lowers her head and steps forward, encircling her with loyalty. "You did what you had to do."

Clarke stares at her. She doesn't expect her support, hasn't expected anyones. And yet she still receives it. Is still provided with their protection and security despite her darkness.

"Sometimes I think that's not true," she mumbles.

Octavia offers her a small smile. "That's because you're human."

Clarke nods. _Human_. She seems to forget what that means sometimes. Because a human loves, a human hopes and feels guilt and regret. But a human can also accept. A human can also forgive.

And she knows that, she knows that she hasn't forgiven herself even though other people have. But she needs one person to. She needs one human to understand and accept and forgive her.

She bites on her bottom lip, crossing her hands over her chest.

"Have you seen Raven?"

* * *

 

iv.

Clarke finds her beneath the shadows of the trees, her hands fisted in the ground.

It's only been a couple of hours since her revelation of Finn's fate, the previous night a pounding reminder in Clarke's ear. She remembers cursing. Remembers words of hatred and rage.

Her palms feel sweaty, stiff at her side as she walks towards her.

"Raven."

She doesn't move, doesn't even flinch at the sound of her name.

" _Raven_."

She can hear the rustle of leaves as she slides her hands across the soil. Stems of dirt are rooted underneath her fingernails, and she pulls at the grass, bending forward.

"Go away, Clarke," Raven whispers.

And she wants to, she really fucking wants to but she can't stand the feeling of guilt in her chest. Can't stand the feeling of self-loathing. And maybe this won't help, maybe her forgiveness will make it worse, but she has to try.

For Bellamy, Octavia and her parents. For herself.

Clarke sighs deeply. They're a couple yards away from the motel, deep within the outskirts of the forest. She steps forward and lowers herself onto the ground. Her leg brushes her fist as she sits beside her.

"I know you hate me," she tells her.

Raven almost laughs. "Good guess."

Clarke swallows thickly. She won't even look at her. The idea of forgiveness becomes more and more impossible and it makes it harder to forgive herself. To forgive herself for even surviving instead of everyone who didn't.

"Raven." Her tone trembles with remorse. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't have stopped him."

"You could have."

Clarke shakes her head. "I couldn't. He wasn't reasonable. He wasn't Finn."

Raven looks at her, and she can see the aftermath of the months creased into her eyes. She looks tired, hopeless, yet the rage inside of her still edges at the corners of her mouth.

She leans forward, vicious.

"Finn or not. You killed him."

Clarke trembles. "I didn't have a choice."

"Of course you didn't." She looks away, looks at the trees and the world soaked in the blood around them. "You're the Griffin girl, the golden girl. Every choice you make should be above everyone else's."

"Raven – "

She curses, ripping the grass from beneath her. Shreds of green fall to the ground, and she pushes onto her feet, standing above her in a heat of frustration.

Clarke's eyes widen, the hatred heavier inside her.

"You can't help me," she hisses, and her voice sounds like ice. "Can't you see that?"

Clarke can see that. She see's that more than anyone. She sees Raven, sees the brokenness that clouds her vision, outlines the bruises that shadow her skin. She see's Raven and she sees herself. She sees damage and she sees herself. She sees no hope and she sees herself.

She can't help Raven. Can't help anyone.

Raven exhales deeply and closes her eyes. The sun is beginning to set above them, a dim shadow approaching their area in the trees.

"You've done enough, alright?" She steps backward, then another. "Just leave me the hell alone."

And then she disappears into the woods, and Clarke is alone in them once more.

* * *

 

v.

Wick grunts as he pushes the axe into the log, carving through the wooden surface.

His grasp on the axe shifts as he cuts through the centre, creating ripples and vibrations throughout the stem. He groans, wiping a patch of sweat that forms on his forehead, the liquid shinning underneath the moonlight.

"Shit." He pulls the axe from it's opening in the log, and swipes it down again. "These things are strong."

Bellamy shrugs. "These trees are hundreds of years old."

Wick sighs, kicking his foot onto the breaking wood. They've been sawing for hours, the afternoon sky turning into a light darkness above them. The breeze is cooler, their hands a soft shade of purple as they tear the wooden piece from the end of the log.

"There," Wick breathes, tossing it into their pile. "We should have enough for now."

Bellamy nods. He bends forward and narrows his eyes into the blackness of the night, counting the amount of logs in their pile. Another cold breeze waves past them, and he shivers, clutching at the sleeves of his arms.

Wick straightens his back and places his hands on his hips. "She'll get over it, you know."

Bellamy looks up at him. "Who?"

"Raven." He picks up his axe and glides his finger across the edges. "She's just grieving."

He exhales deeply, lifting himself from the ground. He knows how much Raven's mourning affects Clarke, knows how much it destroys her. But Wick is right, she'll learn to live with it, to accept it. She has to.

"With Clarke . . . No one wants to be the one to do that. But it happens." Wick flexes jaw, tying the axe to his pack and placing three logs inside "When they come back, they'll be friends again. I'm telling you."

Bellamy tilts his head. "When they come back?"

"Didn't Octavia tell you?" he asks. "Clarke followed Raven into the woods a while ago."

 _Fuck_.

Bellamy curses, dropping the wooden pieces to the ground. He narrows his eyes into the distance, watching the survivors continue to work amongst the camp. He see's Jasper, Monty and Lincoln, Octavia. He see's them.

He see's everyone except Clarke and Raven.

"Damn it." He turns to Wick, the moonlight shinning above him. "It's dark out. They should be back by now."

Wick shakes his head. "They only left - "

But Bellamy doesn't hear what he says after that, because there's a high-pitched screaming, and a loud snap of darkness.

* * *

 

vi.

A loud, blood-curling scream.

Clarke winces, her skin tensing at the sound. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and places her hands on the soil, balancing onto her knees. The woods are dark around her, she can't fucking see anything. Can only hear it.

There's another scream, a low shout, and then nothing.

_God fucking damn it._

Clarke lifts herself from the ground, cursing when the movement breaks the twigs at her feet.

"Raven!"

No response. Not even another scream. Only layers of darkness and the sizzling of a nearby creek, flowing the amount of water away from where she is, away from the danger approaching.

A ripple of quietness surrounds her, suffocating the image of security from her body. And fuck. She shouldn't have fucking stayed, she shouldn't have sat by the tree and cry into her lap, watching as the sun transform into the moon.

And she should be quiet, she shouldn't make a sound.

But she knows that scream. She remembers it.

"Raven?" She cries out, because she shouldn't have let her leave, she should have brought her back to camp. "Raven - "

There's a pain that enters her body as arms wrap around her waist, pulling her into the ground. She screams as her head slams against the dirt, her back cracking beneath the large amount of pressure that weights on top of her.

Clarke swears, blinking into the darkness as a familiar face appears in front of her.

He smiles at her, and there's blood in his teeth. "What are you going to do, darling? Scream?"

But she doesn't. She growls, sending her knee into his groin and digging her nails into his arms. He shouts, his voice breaking in pain, and she rolls underneath him as he collapses onto the ground.

"You fucking bitch!" he hisses.

Clarke coughs out as he continues to squirm on the soil. Her eyes scan the area, her gaze landing on a large object across from her, a green substance appearing at the corners. She curls it around her fingers and crawls towards the man, settling herself on top of him.

"Bitch. You stupid bitch." He laughs suddenly, a disgusting and gurgling sound. "Wait till you - "

And then she raises her arms above her, and smashes the rock onto the crown of his head.

Blood splatters her hair, squirts onto her clothes and her skin. She cries out, hitting him again, and again and again until the top half of his head is crusting in crimson and darkness.

"Fuck." She sobs, holding the rock into her lap and screaming. " _Fuck_."

Clarke collapses on top of him, bending forward and falling onto her elbows. Her fingers hurt, and so does her head, and she has no idea where Raven is, or where Bellamy is, or why the fucking screaming stopped.

She breathes out deeply, squeezing her eyes shut as she buries her face into the soil.

Maybe she's crazy. Maybe there was no screaming at all.

But then there's a clicking sound at the back of her head, the tip of a gun against her skull, and a hot breath on her neck.

"Don't you fucking move."

* * *

 

vii.

"Get the fuck off her!"

Bellamy struggles against the binds at his wrists as one of them hover over Octavia, pulling her against his chest. She whimpers, crying out Lincoln's name, crying out his name, resisting his hold on her.

"Keep her still," another one says. He recognizes that one. Atom. One of the fucking privileged. "We have to wait until the other two are back."

Byrne, one of the Ark's guards, shakes her head. "They've been gone way too fucking long."

"This is what we planned. We're waiting."

Bellamy grunts. He slides his wrists across the wooden poles that chains them, his face still bruised from his attempted escape. He doesn't know how long it's been since they've taken over the camp, doesn't know how long they have left, but he tries anyway, his palms burning.

He rubs and rubs until he hears another man approaching, and see's a strand of blonde hair.

 _Fuck_.

"Clarke!" Jasper shouts, and Erin slams the end of her gun into his face.

Clarke blinks rapidly at the scene in front of her, her hands raised above her head as another man walks her towards the camp. She notices him, and he notices the blood that soaks her clothes, that soaks her skin.

"Clarke," he whispers. His voice is quiet amongst the shouting.

"Jackson, good job!" Atom smiles wide and gestures them forward, Raven and another man following behind. "You've brought the rest of them, huh?"

Jackson nods and taps Clarke's shoulder with his gun. "She took out Myles before we got her."

"Of course she did," Atom chuckles, sliding a finger down her crimson cheeks. "She is a Griffin, after all."

Byrne laughs, tucking her blonde behind her ears. She rubs her knuckles across her nose, grabbing Clarke's shoulders and Raven's arm. She pulls them towards the other survivors that remain in a circle of their own blood, the fire they set to the motel burning behind them.

She pushes Clarke onto her knees beside Bellamy, her gun trained at the back of her head.

"All targets accounted for, Atom."

Atom raises his eyebrows and smiles, entering the centre of the camp's circle. He breathes deeply, looking at them individually, his gaze transfixed on their wounds, on the ropes that binds them to the poles.

Clarke glances at Bellamy, and he continues to rub his wrists, to thin out the thread that traps him.

"Why. You guys must be confused, huh?" He flexes his jaw and licks his lips. "Well, I'm not sure if you remember, but you guys got majority of us killed on that one day in the Ark. And, since we managed to escape, we've also managed to track you guys down. Isn't that right, Tomac?"

The one holding Octavia, Tomac, grunts. "You promised we would burn them," he curses.

Atom holds up his finger. "And we will. But." He turns to Clarke, and his smirk widens. "I think we should have a little fun with the girl who started it all, don't you agree?"

Monty and Octavia shout in protest, Bellamy rubs his wrists faster.

"You see, we've been following you for days, weeks even," Atom tells them, walking towards her. "We would have sufficed by killing all of you, but then you brought us the Griffin girl. And that . . . that makes me very happy."

Atom removes a knife from his belt and kneels in front of her, curling the blade around her hair.

"To think the Ark was destroyed by an unprivileged, underwhelming orphan. I will never understand."

Clarke swallows thickly. "You know what I don't understand?"

"Tell me," he slithers.

Byrne further presses the gun against Clarke's skull, her eyes trained on the waves of her blonde hair. Clarke glances at her group, at the fast rotation of Bellamy's wrists, and she grins, small and unprepared.

"Why you fuckers never learn."

She leans forward, her collarbone skimming the blade of his knife as Bellamy rips the ropes from his wrists. There's a gunshot, a scream, and he tackles Byrne to the ground, smashing her head into the dirt.

"Clarke!" he shouts, turning to find her pushing down Atom, her fingers scraping the small wound at her shoulder. He hears a shout, and he watches as Octavia removes her knife from Tomac, running past Lincoln to remove Jasper's bindings.

Byrne squirms beneath him. "Atom!" She screams, desperate. "Help - "

Bellamy groans, his hands cradling her face as his he slams it into the grass. She coughs up blood, a trail of red slipping from her lips, and he twists her neck, twisting and twisting until he feels a snap.

Her body goes limp beneath him, a lifeless doll on a crimson playground.

"You motherfucker."

Bellamy turns. The grass is filled with blood and death, and he looks forward, his glare landing on Jackson as he stands in front of him, his gun aimed. Bellamy curses, and places his hands in front of him.

Then there's a gunshot, and Jackson falls to the ground with a bullet in his head, Octavia holding a pistol behind him.

She exhales deeply. "I always hated that guy."

* * *

 

viii.

Atom lays lifeless beneath her, his dark eyes open and shinning.

Clarke gasps, her blonde curls tainted with red and the night's darkness. His hands slip from her shoulders, falling to his side in the pool of his own blood, a blood she lives in, a blood she breathes in.

She swallows thickly, removing the knife from his neck.

"Clarke!"

She closes her eyes. It's over. Please let it be over.

Her hands tremble as she drops the blade, letting it clutter to the body of her hour's second victim. She whimpers, running her hand over the pulsing wound on her shoulder, the one that reminds her she's alive.

"Clarke." Bellamy appears in front of her, kneeling in the river of red. "Are you okay? You're okay."

She looks at him, at the stains that reflect her own. Blood coat his hands, smearing her with the substance as he touches her face, whispering that it's over, that they're dead, they killed him.

He sounds relieved. And he is. He has the same tattoos of death, the same wounds made in the war. He looks like her, dressed in blood and pain. He looks like her and she always thought he was one of the good guys.

Maybe there are no good guys.

Clarke sobs, pulling him against her. She buries her face into his neck, her lips pressing against his skin as he hushes her, as he soothes her. Maybe it really is over. The innocence and the pretending. Maybe they really are the bad guys.

Bellamy brings her closer, lifting her from Atom's body. "You're okay. Just breathe."

She tries, but when she closes her eyes, she see's blood, and when she breathes, she smells blood.

Blood is everywhere. It's home.

There's a scream that echoes throughout the night, and Clarke pulls away from him. She grasps her shoulders and lifts herself from the red pool beneath them, her eyes scanning past the countless bodies that lay across the camp.

"Clarke!" Octavia screams, bending towards Raven. "Get the fuck over here!"

She exhales sharply and steps away from Bellamy, her legs stiff and rigid as she runs towards them. Lincoln sits beside Wick, holding him back as Raven lays on the ground with red streaming around her.

But not someone else's blood. Her blood.

Clarke kneels beside her. "What happened?"

"I was fighting," she wheezes, "and one of those fuckers shot me."

Clarke nods. She wipes the tears from her eyes and peers forward, searching her body for a wound. She feels Bellamy stand behind her, and the fire of the motel echoes in the distance, a rapid routine of crackling flames.

She feels the area of her abdomen, and curses when she senses an opening.

"Fuck." She bites on her bottom lip, looking towards Jasper. "Jasper, I need you to go to the stream and get water."

He blinks at her. "But - "

" _Now_."

He nods, stumbling away from them. He hears Raven scream again, and Clarke shout another order, and he runs faster, slipping upon amounts of blood and guts created on the grass.

Maybe Monty was right. Maybe they were the bad guys.

He enters the woods, his body rushing in adrenaline as he follows the sound of the stream. He hears water, hears the crashing of small waves and he approaches the sound, his hands feeling for the small flask on his belt.

He opens it and kneels beside the creek, dumping the flask into the body of water.

"You okay?"

Jasper swears, and turns behind him, watching a boy appear in front of him.

"Stay back," he warns, pulling the flask from the stream. "I have a camp nearby. They will kill you."

The boy narrows his eyes and shakes his head. He stops forward, and Jasper pulls the knife from his pocket, the one he used to kill another man only a few moments earlier.

"Relax," the boy breathes, putting his hands in front of him. "I'm not trying to hurt you."

Jasper gulps. "Then what do you want?"

The boy smiles, wide and genuine. A devious smirk. There's more screaming in the distance, and Jasper shudders, his hand tightening over the flask while his other one tightens over the knife.

"My name's Murphy. I have a camp too," he tells him, taking another step forward. "And it looks like you need some help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you guys think?! Did you like it? Do you think Raven survive? Do you trust Murphy? Are you glad you saw some more badass Clarke? Let me know in the comments below!
> 
> Can't wait to post more for you guys. There are only a few more chapters left! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Until next time.
> 
> Happy Bellarking, xoxoxoxoxo.


	13. Nowhere Found II: VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm going to try alternating between Friends (With Benefits) and this one because I love both too much to stop writing one or the other. I'm glad you all enjoyed the previous chapter, and here's the next one for Nowhere Found! Hope you enjoy it!

i.

"How can I trust you?"

Jasper stutters out his word, a puff of air surrounding his cold breath. The woods is radiating his panic, and he takes a step back, watching as Murphy trails his finger on the thrones of a bush.

"I was on a supply run," he tells him. Blood prickles at the end of his thumb, and he presses it against his lips. "I heard gunshots, and I knew someone was in trouble. My people . . . we help people like you."

"People like me?"

Murphy nods. "The good ones."

Jasper swallows thickly. His body shivers under the exposure of the moon, the stained blood crusting onto his skin. He thinks of Raven, thinks of the water shaking in his hands, thinks of the possible salvation Murphy is offering him.

He breathes deeply, his lungs tightening.

"I know someone is hurt," Murphy continues. "We have the supplies to help her."

Jasper's eyes widen. "How do you - "

There's a piercing scream that echoes throughout the woods, a loud and feminine piercing scream. Murphy shrugs his shoulders and gestures towards the direction of the sound, crossing his arms over his chest.

Another scream echoes, and another, and Jasper hears someone shouting his name.

"You don't have much time," Murphy hisses.

Jasper closes his eyes, tightening the flask of water, loosening the handle of his knife.

* * *

 

ii.

Blood squirts onto Clarke's neck, spraying her in a rain of crimson.

She shudders, her fingers digging deeper into Raven's skin. She grazes her flesh, earning another shriek of pain as she pushing against her wound, searching for the scraps of the bullet.

Octavia curses. "She's losing too much blood."

Clarke exhales sharply. They're drowning in it, drowning in blood and death and tears. She looks up at Raven's face, seeing the colour draining from her eyes and replacing it with a dull, sick expression.

She looks too pale, looks like she's dying.

"Where the fuck is Jasper?"

There's shouting in the distance, and Clarke turns, squinting her eyes to see Jasper approaching them, the flask of water in his hands. She sighs in relief, because maybe they have a chance, maybe they have a way.

But then another man, someone she doesn't recognize, appears beside him, and she feels the coldness again.

Bellamy pulls out his gun, aiming it.

"Whoa," the man raises his hands above his shoulders, bowing his head. "Easy, there."

Jasper stands in front of him. "His name is Murphy. He's come to help us."

The man, Murphy, nods desperately, raising his chin. There's bruises that line his eyes, cuts and scraps that reflect the wounds on her own body. His fingers clench into his palm, his fingernails black with dirt.

Bellamy keeps his gun trained on him. "Why the fuck are you here?"

"We have a camp, not too far from here." He nods towards Raven, sprawling weakly on the ground. "We can get her treated."

Wick steps forward. "Take us."

Octavia hisses at him, slamming her palm against his shoulder. She frowns, walking towards Jasper and ripping the flask from his grasp, tossing it towards Clarke. She turns back to Jasper, glancing between him and Murphy.

"Why the fuck would you bring him here?"

Monty grunts in agreement. "He could be one of the people who attacked us."

"Or he could be one of the people who can _save_ us," Jasper pleads.

Octavia groans in disagreement, and their voices get louder, and the blood pouring from Raven's wounds gets thicker. There's so much noise, so many voices and pointing of guns and accusing fingers, cursing and screaming and suffering and -

There's a low gasp of surprise, and Murphy collapses to the ground, a redness swelling around his cheek.

Bellamy steps back and rubs his fist from the impact.

"Blake!" Jasper growls.

Bellamy ignores him, pushing past his exasperated arms. He lifts Murphy's unconscious body from the dirt and pushes him up against a nearby tree, his hands padding along the multiple pockets on his coat.

"What are you doing?" Jasper kneels beside him. "Bellamy - "

Raven screams again, loud. Piercing the air.

Clarke exhales sharply. Her hands tremble as she washes the dirt from Raven's wound, the once clear water transforming into a puddle of red. There's too much blood, too many loose scraps of the bullet, too much of everything and not enough time.

She feels Wick near her, but she can't meet his eyes.

 _Fuck_.

There's a rumbling of noise, a shaky breath, and Murphy's eyes open again. He smiles a mouthful of blood and spits onto the ground, wiping the remaining substance from his lips.

Bellamy fists the front of his shirt and presses him into the tree.

"No weapons on you. Have other people around?"

Murphy raises his eyebrows. "Usually people don't try to kill me."

Octavia scoffs. She steps around Lincoln, her glare darkening against Jasper's back. She stands in front of Murphy, her hand hovering over one of the guns she collected from the dead bodies surrounding them.

"Because you're the one doing the killing?" she questions.

Murphy seems amused by this. "With what weapons?"

"Got hands, don't you?"

" _Enough_."

Clarke grunts. She flattens her hands across Raven's wound, her dark skin tainting a faint purple. It's getting worse. She turns towards Bellamy, her eyes meeting his, and the world slows down again.

"We're losing too much time," she whispers. Her fingers press against Raven's pulse, and there's barely a beat. "She's dying."

Bellamy swallows thickly. She watches his expression morph into coldness, into a blank stare, and he looks at Murphy. The cut from his upper lip is still pouring blood, but there's an irritation in his eyes, an impatience.

"Listen - " he coughs out more blood. Wheezing. "Either you come with me, and you risk your belief in trusting me. Or you don't come with me. And you allow one of your own to sacrifice that odd." Another cough. "Up to you."

But it isn't. The world has never been up to them. Has never given them choices.

But Clarke chooses this one anyway.

"Bring us."

* * *

 

iii.

Raven's body is cold. Too cold. Clarke curses as she tightens the torn shirt over her wound, pushing her palm against the blood oozing from the bullet hole. She whimpers, low, and Wick grunts as he adjusts her in his arms.

"How much further?" he asks, and he sounds breathless, desperate.

Murphy turns to them. They've been walking - _running_ \- for hours, or minutes, seconds maybe. She doesn't fucking know. Clarke's head pulses with each dying beat of Raven's heart, and she feels a heat creep into her skin, that familiar panic.

"We're close." Murphy squints his eyes into the distance. "We should see the fence soon."

Octavia tilts her head, glancing at Clarke. A fence. A barrier similar to the wall of the Ark, the one that kept the bad guys out and the worse guys in. A wall that protected and endangered.

Bellamy tenses beside her, and she brushes her hand against his arm, reassuring the both of them.

Clarke swallows thickly, the balls of her feet burning with each further step. "She needs surgery, medical supplies. Or she won't make it," she says, her fingers trapping more blood from pouring out of Raven's wound. "Tell me you have it."

Murphy nods. "We have it."

And then he quickens his strides, muttering under his breath about crossing one more bridge, and traveling one more path until they reach the camp. The moon is hidden in the trees above them, and it's dark, dark enough to hide the bruises and reminder of their most recent battle. The battle at a place they hoped they could call home.

Home. Clarke shakes her head, stretching the wound on her shoulder. She winces, feeling blood drip onto her skin, but it doesn't compare to the pain of losing another home, or losing more hope and -

"Hey!" Clarke looks up at the sound of Murphy's voice, blinking at the sight of the fence in front of her. " _Hey_. Open the fucking gate!"

Thirteen guards. She counts. Thirteen guards round the perimeter of the camp, guns pressed into their sides as they open the chain-linked fence. Murphy runs towards the entrance, gesturing for them to follow.

They do.

"What happened?" asks one of the guards, not much older than Clarke.

"Gun shot," Murphy says. "Couple of outsiders."

He nods, leading them further into the camp. Cabins line the base, wooden cabins that remind Clarke of the Ark, of the limited shelter it provided. She swallows thickly, her ears ringing as the guards shout for a doctor.

Another guard approaches them with a stretcher, an older woman following quickly behind.

"Clear one of the operating tables!" The woman yells. She turns to the younger guard, her eyes wild. "And fucking get Tristan."

The guard nods, disappearing deeper into the camp, and the woman steps towards Clarke. She feels Bellamy behind her, tense, as the woman pulls Clarke's hands from Raven's wound, inspecting the bullet hole.

"Please." Wick's voice is pleading. "Please help her."

The woman looks up at him and nods. She calls for one of the guards gawking at the scene, ordering him to lift Raven onto the stretcher. He does, and Wick steps forward, about to follow.

"No," the guard says, and Clarke's heart seizes. "You have to stay here."

Octavia shakes her head. "That's not an option."

"If you want us to help her, it is your only option."

Octavia narrows her eyes, her hand hovering above the hilt of her knife. Clarke swallows thickly and treads in front of her, placing herself between us and them. She raises her hands, bloody and battered.

"We don't want trouble," she says, her voice steady. "She needs medical attention."

"Then stay here," he grumbles.

He turns to the woman then and nods, and they lift the stretcher above their waists. Raven's head rolls at the movement, her skin pale, and Wick curses, stepping in front of Clarke.

"We're not fucking leaving her!"

Monty places his hand on his shoulder. "Wick - "

Wick growls, shaking him off. The guard and woman holding the stretcher don't wait, don't even turn, and Murphy reaches for his arm, halting him. Wick twists from his grasp and collides his fist across Murphy's jaw.

" _Stop_!" Clarke screams. A guard raises his gun, Octavia pulls out her dagger.

Clarke swears, stepping forward. She feels Bellamy's fingers close around her wrist, tight and crucial as he pulls her beside him. There's a whistle, and she watches as Murphy jerks backwards, rubbing the purple shading on his jaw.

"Drop your weapon!" The guard yells, and suddenly there are more, the entire squad. One of them shoves Wick onto his knees. "Get on the fucking ground!"

Thirteen pairs of guns aim at them, and Clarke exhales deeply, glancing at Bellamy. He nods, his fingers loosening on her wrist as he raises his hands in the air, lowering himself to the ground. She follows his actions, placing her bloodied palms above her head.

The guards approach them, pressing them into the soil and twining their arms behind their backs. Clarke presses her cheek against the ground, seeing Raven being brought into a different cabin before she closes her eyes.

* * *

 

iv.

Wick paces the length of the room, rubbing his thumbs over his temples in untamed circles. His chest heaves with each unsteady breath, and Clarke recognizes his actions - his demeanour. Panic.

"Fuck. _Fuck_." He shakes his head wildly. "We shouldn't have trusted them. I shouldn't have - "

Monty steps forward. "We had no choice."

Wick laughs humourlessly. He doesn't like that answer, but it's the only one they have. It's been about an hour since the guards brought them to their underground cell, since they lifted Raven onto a stretcher and provided no intention of returning her to them.

Clarke swallows thickly. _Panic_. She feels it, too.

She breathes deeply, running her fingers along the concrete walls. It's cold in the room despite the tension, but she feels so warm, sweat gathering at the base of her forehead.

Bellamy touches her shoulder. "Clarke," he whispers, voice rough in the darkness. "You're bleeding."

"I'm fine."

He opens his mouth, words lingering, and she shakes her head. This is about Raven. They need to find Raven. They don't have the time or the luxury to worry about mindless cuts and bruises.

"They could still be helping her," Jasper whispers from the corner of the room. "It could have just been protocol."

Octavia narrows her eyes. "They pulled their guns on us."

"So did we."

Octavia huffs, pinching the bridge of her nose. Everything feels tense, almost falling apart. There's a clatter of movement outside their cell, and Lincoln leans against the gates, his hands gripping the metal. Four guards appear in front of them, and then Murphy, his face marred with purple shading as he places a key into the cell's lock.

"Against the wall," one of the guards hisses when Murphy opens the gate. " _Now_."

Bellamy's hand tightens on Clarke's shoulder as the guards fill the room, their guns raised against their chests. His jaw flexes, and Clarke guides him towards the wall, knowing too well the dangerous look in his glare.

She places her palms against the concrete, closing her eyes in discomfort as the guards pad each of them down, extracting any weapons they have hidden beneath their clothes.

The guard searching Octavia finds the dagger buried in her boot, and she grunts distastefully.

"I'm sure you understand why we've been keeping you here," Murphy murmurs. He crosses his arms in the centre of the cell. "The world is a dangerous place."

Wick lowers his head. "Raven - "

Murphy sighs. "Is being treated," he says, and there's a hint of irritation in his voice. He tightens his lips, rubbing the bruise that forms the outline of his jaw. "But you can't enter the camp, not without meeting our leader."

"Leader?" Monty asks curiously.

"What? You think we're an uncivilized pack of outsiders?"

Monty doesn't respond. And, Clarke see's it - _panic_. The guards step away then, returning to Murphy's side, and he shifts his eyes to the floor, where their weapons lay scattered in the distance.

"We don't want to stay. We'll leave as soon as Raven heals," Lincoln offers.

Murphy raises his eyebrows. "And you think she's going to heal anytime soon?"

No. Clarke knows she won't, doesn't even know if she'll ever heal, at least not in the way that she hopes. A silent discouragement settles amongst the room, and she bites on her bottom lip, glancing at Wick's sullen expression.

Murphy shakes his head, stepping forward. "Listen, we're not the bad guys," he says, resting his hand on the pistol at his side. "Follow our rules and you'll be safe here."

And then he ordered them in front of him, the guards training their guns on their backs as he leads them outside of the cell. Safe. Clarke shakes her head, and again, she feels it. _Panic_.

* * *

 

v.

Tristan. That's their leader's name. _Tristan kom Trikru_. With a large chest and even larger arms to level himself, to ignite the status of a leader without even needing the knowledge to do so. Only the power.

 _Physical_ power. Intimidation. The kind that rely on pain and violence to restore the order. Tristan sits comfortably in his chair, glaring at them as they stand before him, naked under his burning eyes.

Clarke swallows thickly, she remembers leaders like him.

"Unfortunate we're to meet under the circumstances of your wounded friend," he says, and his voice is raspy, not as soft and collective as Jaha's. "We plan to make your stay here comfortable."

Clarke glances at Bellamy, hesitant.

"The girl went into surgery about an hour ago," one of the guards along the perimeter of the room says. "She's stable."

Tristan smiles tightly. "Wonderful news."

Clarke sighs, shifting her gaze amongst her people. They seem tired, mentally and physically drained - stripped from their shelter and their weapons. She steps forward, her thumb brushing against Bellamy's wrist.

"Your camp is large," she says, eyes challenging him. "I'm surprised you aren't under the command of the government."

Tristan grins. "Yes." He tapes his finger along his wooden desk and stands. "We were apart of the first rebellion in one of the bases - the council was overthrown, and we fled beyond the walls. Made a life here."

Clarke shakes her head. "How?"

"It took a while," he confesses. "But we gathered materials, created supplies, created hope."

"And now you let people in."

"Yes," he hums, and the room goes quiet as he speaks. _Power_. "And now we let people in."

Clarke tightens her lips, looking at him. His shoulders are heavy from the padding of his fur, though she can see the lines in his muscles, can see the battle scars that dent his body. He has many more than the guards that protect him.

She narrows her eyes. "Why?"

Tristan exhales deeply, glancing at Murphy. He must not be used to being on this side of the interrogation. "It makes us stronger," he tells her. And then his eyes shift as he glares at her. "You seem like a smart girl, little one. You must know we're on the brink of war."

She does. Knows it in her blood and wounds.

"The Reapers," she whispers, remembering the carvings that lined the trees. "Can they help us?"

Tristan chuckles, or something of it. "They don't exist. They're a rumour, set for Mount Weather to fear."

Clarke winces at the reminder of the mountain. Her breath hitches, and she exhales deeply, remembering the desperation in Cage's voice when he begged her for answers on the Reapers, on anything. She remembers the violence in his eyes, feels his hands hard on her skin.

She doesn't realize she's shivering until Bellamy presses his hand on the small of her back.

_Do not show pain. Do not show weakness._

Tristan sighs, rubbing his palms together. "I would love to continue speaking with you, but you all look extremely spent." He turns to Murphy and nods. "Murphy, please escort them to their cabin. We'll let you know when your friend has awoken from surgery."

Wick releases a shuddering breath, and the movement seems to further his pain with each heave. Octavia rests her hand on his shoulder and whispers reassuring nothings into his ear, much like her brother, those statements that mean nothing and everything.

Clarke leans into Bellamy as he guides them towards the door.

"Oh, little one!" Tristan calls, and she turns to him. "Your shoulder."

She glances at the blood staining her shirt. "It's nothing."

He shakes his head, waving her off. "Please. We have the medical tools to spare." He grins, the hardness in his eyes disappearing, replaced with forced concern. "Allow me to bandage it."

Clarke swallows thickly. She feels Bellamy's hand press harder into her back, tracing deep circles on her skin. She looks up at him, watches him watch Tristan, and when he meets her glare, he nods in encouragement.

_Do not show pain. Do not show weakness._

* * *

 

vi.

She sits on the edge of the medical bed, her battered legs hanging from the mattress as Tristan stands behind her. His fingers are hard on the broken skin of her shoulder, inflicting pain, and she grits her teeth to keep from whimpering.

" _Weakness is the true strength of your enemy_ ," her father would tell her. " _Show no weakness, and you will never lose_."

She closes her eyes as Tristan sews the needle through her flesh, tightening the hole of her wound. She doesn't even remember what happened, who did it to her, the events of the night blurring into one mindless confusion.

Tristan hums when he finishes, patting her stitches.

"You are brave," he observes, shifting to stand in front of her. "There are lots of scars on your body."

Clarke sighs, pulling her sleeve down her arm. She rolls her shoulder, wincing at the stretch of her wound and the pain it inflicts. Her head feels dizzy, heart pounding and - _pulse, pulse, pulse_.

"Not brave," she hisses. "Just lucky."

Tristan nods. "Words of every woman who refuses to admit her strength."

Clarke looks away from him. Her eyes scan the medical tools that line the white room, squinting at pairs of equipment the Ark's medical bay hadn't even supplied. She tightens her lip, exhaling.

"You have an impressive amount of supplies," she tells him.

He smiles tightly, and there's a hint of coldness. "Just wait until you have our dinner," he whispers. "That's everyone's favourite part."

She stares at him. "Is it?"

"It is."

Clarke watches him. His eyes have clouded into the unnatural state of calmness, the emotion he has practised very hard to display. She breathes deeply - no pain, no weakness, no panic.

"Then I look forward to it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the new chapter of Nowhere Found! I hope you guys enjoyed it, and also, hope you guys enjoyed the season 3 premiere of the 100! I personally thought it was amazing, and no worries about Bellamy's new gf and Clarke's hook up - people gotta blow off some steam somehow! Bellarke is endgame, don't you forget it.
> 
> Can't believe there are only two more chapters left of this instalment. And then it's over. It has been such a crazy ride and I am so thankful for those who have been there riding with me.
> 
> I'm planning to write one final instalment after this one, because I'm not quite down with these characters or this story. And believe there is so much more to tell before ending this tale.
> 
> Anyways, hope you guys enjoyed, and can't wait to post the last two chapters for you in the upcoming weeks! Xo.


	14. Nowhere Found II: VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay - A) How perfect is our Bellarke? I mean (spoilers for 3x02) but that face caress, the way he continued to look for Clarke even after being STABBED?! (*insert Jason saying it was platonic here*) But. No. Honestly. No one can convince me Bellarke isn't going to happen. No one. They're too perfect for each other.
> 
> And - B) I'm kind of conflicted about where I want to go with Friends (With Benefits) so I decided to update this story first. This story is like my little baby and no matter how many times I get writer's block I always find a way to update it.
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed the last chapter, and this one as well. This chapter is kind of a short run up to the next (final) chapter. So enjoy it. It only gets worse from here.
> 
> I'll update Friends (With Benefits) when I decided how the hell I even want to finish it lmao.

i.

The camp is cascaded in darkness when Clarke emerges from their medical unit. Her taped shoes are hard on the soil as she walks, and she feels dizzy, light-headed, the events of the previous hours drowning her in exhaustion.

Murphy places a hand on her arm. "You okay?"

"Fine," she tells him.

He nods. His jaw continues to bruise with the impact of Wick's fist, and he turns from her, tucking his chin against his chest. No weakness, no pain. He's learned that lesson as well.

Clarke shifts her gaze. Her hands remain stained with blood, Raven's she thinks, or maybe the man who tried to kill her. She shakes her head. She doesn't know anymore.

"You guys have your own cabin," Murphy informs her. "It'll have food and water."

Clarke blinks. She doesn't remember the last time she ate.

"You do supply runs?" she asks him.

Murphy shrugs. "More like supply teams. We have different groups for every method of survival. There's people who stay on watch, people who go on supply runs. People who cook."

She narrows her eyes. Survival doesn't come as easy. There's a shout in the distance, and a rotten soccer ball passes by them as children laugh in the distance. Murphy bends down and throws the ball back to them.

Clarke shakes her head. "This place," she says. "It's like a community." She doesn't say home.

"Yeah." He tilts his head towards the moon above them and sighs. "The ways of those government camps were brutal, we take in anyone who needs us, as long as Tristan accepts them."

"You just help strangers?"

Murphy's lips turn slightly upwards. "We have the numbers. If we brought in someone who didn't corporate, it wouldn't be hard to take them down."

Clarke stares at him. _Take them down_. She thinks of the guards who let them in, the guns trained at their sides. It's a cruel world, they told her, it's part of our protocol, the part of survival.

She swallows thickly, ignoring the voice in her head, the one telling her to run.

* * *

 

ii.

He leads her to the cabin beside one of the watch towers. It's large, the wooden shelter decorated with windows, flowers growing around the porch, and a dim light that glows above the stairs. Clarke shakes her head. It's nicer than the one she had in the Ark.

"They're all waiting for you inside," Murphy murmurs, standing before the cabin "You should probably go in."

Clarke sighs. She bites on her bottom lip, and he nods towards her before turning in the direction of the medical unit. She walks up the stairs and across the porch, her fingers cold on the knob as she pushes the door open.

Bellamy stands from one of the couches.

"Clarke." He walks towards her, and then all eyes are suddenly on her, persistent and anxious. "You okay?"

She looks at him. "Yeah. You?"

He doesn't answer. _Not okay_. She exhales and places her hand on his arm, trailing her fingers to his wrist. She traces her thumb along his skin, and he closes his eyes, breathing deeply. _Not okay. Not okay not okay_.

"Anything about Raven?" Wick croaks from the other side of the room.

Clarke bites on her bottom lip. "They're keeping her alive. That's all I know."

"And that's all they can do," Lincoln offers, and Wick nods, lowering his head onto his lap.

Clarke pulls Bellamy into the centre of the room, her bloodied palm sliding against his rough one. The rough ones that murdered Byrne only hours before. He looks so tired, so drained, and she guides him back to the couch, nudging him onto it.

He refuses, continuing to stand beside her.

"What do you think about this place?" Octavia whispers.

"It's a sanctuary." Jasper looks at them. "It could be a chance."

"There's no such thing as sanctuary. Not anymore."

Monty runs his hands over his face and closes his eyes. "We don't know that," he mumbles.

"We _do_."

Lincoln sighs. He places his hand on Octavia's leg, brushing his fingers over her knee. She tenses, her face stretched in pain; arms and shoulders and back - everything - slumped in exhaustion.

Clarke swallows thickly. Sanctuary. She looks at her feet and remembers the shelters before, of the homes they shared, thinks of the death and destruction. Thinks of Tristan, cold and curious. Thinks of the children playing in the field. There's children.

Jasper stands from the armchair. His hands are rung and battered, and he seems desperate, looks desperate - eyes in a shape of pleading.

"Look at us," he whispers, and his voice cracks, broken in three words. "We're falling apart. Tired of running. I can't let this be another stop along the way."

Octavia stares at him. "What about the Reapers?"

Clarke winces. Damn that word. Damn the memories that haunt her with it.

Wick looks up from his lap, eyes bloodshot. "They say they don't exist," he mutters.

"And we're supposed to believe them?"

Jasper laughs - humourless and breathless and hostile. It's unnatural. Dangerous. She feels Bellamy tense, and she tightens her fingers around his wrist, shifting him behind her.

"Who else are we going to believe?" Jasper challenges.

No one says anything. Not even a word. They stare at him, all six eyes on the boy who stands breaking in the corner, the one who used to perform for the children at the Ark. The one who used to hum every song he knew. The innocent one.

And then Clarke realizes he's not innocent anymore. None of them are - not Bellamy, not Octavia, not the people who provided them with the cabin. Her father or mother.

Clarke shakes her head. No one is the same, and it hurts her head, makes her brain pulse violently. The voice in her head grows stronger, and she presses her fingers against Bellamy's skin, because she needs him, and he needs her.

* * *

 

iii.

He falls asleep a couple hours later, his head tucked against the armchair of the couch. Octavia suggests they move him to one of the bedrooms, but Clarke shakes her head, her hand in his curls.

"He needs to rest," she whispers into the darkness of the room. "Just for tonight."

Octavia nods, eyes soft, and disappears with Lincoln into a bedroom.

Clarke breathes deeply. She looks down at him, at the eyes that's seen so much blood; now closed in contentment. His eyes have both fire and ice, and she's seen them both, has loved them both.

And she loves him. Even when she tries not to. _God_ , does she love him.

Clarke chews on her bottom lip. She strokes her fingers over the scars that remain on the edge of his skull. They're dented, bumpy, and she pulls away, pressing her lips softly to his jaw before standing and walking towards the kitchen.

 _The kitchen_. It's beautiful, wood carved from nonexistent trees, and she swallows thickly. She steps towards a cupboard and settles her palm along the lumber, pressing her skin against it. It's smooth, not jagged with chipped wood like the ones in the Ark. It's surface is soft, gentle, and it doesn't make sense.

These people, this place - it's too good. They've survived for too long. No cuts or bruises, no open wounds. It's not possible. It doesn't make fucking sense.

Clarke narrows her eyes. She trails her hand along the cupboard, palm still stained with blood, the blood that no one can see, but she can still feel. On her skin and on her mind. Her fingers dangle over the end of the knob, and she twists, twists and twists until it becomes lose in her grasp.

She remove the knob from the cupboard, holding it, staring at the long, sharp nail inside of it.

"What are you doing?"

Clarke gasps, closing her eyes. She exhales longingly and slips the nail inside her pocket, it's pointed end hard against her thigh. The voice is too low to be Bellamy's, too deep to be Octavia's, and her shoulders tense as she turns to them.

Jasper stands in front of her, his arms crossed over his chest.

She blinks. "Nothing."

"Clarke." His hard gaze softens in the darkness, and he takes a step forward. "I trust them."

"I know."

He sighs, pursing his lips. His fingers tremble unconsciously against the side of his thigh, and he lifts them to his face, running them along his features. He seems distressed, confused, and Clarke presses the nail further against her pants to hide it.

"You should trust them, too. They're helping Raven. _Giving us food_ and - " Jasper shakes his head and closes his eyes. "All I know is that if this doesn't work out, I'm not sure how I can keep going on."

Clarke stares at him, at the desperation in his broken gaze. And she curses.

"Then maybe this will work out," she tells him.

Jasper grins, and her heart seizes. He looks like a boy again. He reaches forward, his rough fingers soft on her hair as he moves a strand behind her ear, tucking his hand against her cheek.

"Yeah," he whispers, and then lower, happier. "Get some sleep."

Clarke nods, following him into the hallway. Her eyes shift towards Bellamy's sleeping form on the couch before she mutters a goodnight to Jasper and enters an empty bedroom beside his.

He smiles at her, and she waits until she closes the door behind her to remove the nail from her pocket.

* * *

 

iv.

They spend the next day mostly in sleep and in silence, the remaining members of their group settled around different areas of the cabin. The walls are a quiet contrast to the danger of the woods, when the constant sound of wolves and thunder and possible Outsiders forbid them from sleeping.

Now it's the calmness of the camp that keeps Clarke awake, the threat in it's peace.

Wick sits at the chair hovering over the window, his eyes scanning the camp for any movement, for any indication of Raven or the people who took her. Clarke sighs, clutching the knob's nail in her fist as she lays her head against the couch cushion. Bellamy shifts beside her, and she looks at him, his eyes peeling open to the evening light.

Clarke breathes deeply, watching him. "Hey."

He blinks. His hair is ruffled from sleep, and she's reminded of the morning after he found her in the alley, when they were young and unaware of the world's difficulties. She reaches forward, moving a curl from his forehead.

Bellamy exhales. "Hey," he whispers. He straightens into a sitting position on the couch. "You get any sleep?"

_Not really._

"Yeah," she tells him. "Lots."

He narrows his eyes, gaze wary when he notices the exhaustion in her features. He sighs deeply, but before he can respond there's a knock on the front door, forceful yet patient.

Wick stands from the chair and rushes across the room, pulling it open.

"Rav - "

He stops short, the relief in his gaze hardening at the figure in the doorway. Tristan.

He smiles. "Nice to finally see one of you has woken up," he says, stepping into the cabin. He turns to Wick, his firm shoulders rolling back as he rests a hand on his arm. "Wick, is it?"

Wick nods. "Yeah."

"That's right." He sighs, and there's that forced concern Clarke recognizes, the untruthful eyes. "Raven's been asking about you. Just came out of surgery."

Wick's glare widens, frantic, and he moves forward in a flash of desperation. There's a tug, and he grunts as Tristan tightens his grasp around his arm, unmoving. Bellamy rises from the couch.

"She is asleep now," he mutters. His tone is harsh, and he sighs deeply before recollecting himself. Clarke grips the nail between her fingers. "It's best that she rests. You can see her when she is awake."

Wick shakes his head. "I need to see her."

"And you will." Tristan releases his hold and steps back. "But you need to let her recover. Same as you."

Tristan turns then, looking at Bellamy and Clarke. He closes the door behind him and walks towards them, leaving Wick in the distance, his head bent as he stumbles back to the chair and collapses onto it.

Clarke chews on her bottom lip. _"Look at us,"_ Jasper told them, _"we're falling apart."_

Tristan stands before them, and she lifts himself from the couch. He glances at her, nodding, those unsympathetic eyes cold on her hard ones. She looks at the belt around his waist, the guns and knives that hang there.

_Do not show pain. Do not show weakness._

Tristan exhales deeply. "Bellamy." And then he turns to her. "Clarke. You have everything needed? Enough food, water?"

Clarke nods, gripping the nail in her pocket.

He grins tightly. "Good," he says, his chest bulging. He stares at them, and she feels Bellamy tense beside her, his body shifting her behind him. Tristan raises his eyebrows, noticing, and he steps towards the front door.

His hand is on the doorknob when he turns back to them.

"Oh and - don't forget." He smiles widely, unafraid of the wickedness in his glare. "We have our feast tomorrow night."

And then he leaves, exiting the cabin with his hand on the hilt of a dagger. Bellamy curses, muttering about letting the others know of Raven's status as he rushes into the hallway of bedrooms, his voice echoing Octavia's name.

Clarke swallows thickly and walks towards the front of the cabin, slamming the bolt over the front door.

* * *

 

v.

She stands underneath the archway of her bedroom window, her bruised body leaning against the wood. It's late, or early, she doesn't know - sometime around 3:00 am she thinks, based on the placement of the moon in the sky. Or at least that's what her father taught her.

Her hands grip the nail. He taught her a lot of things.

Clarke sighs. It's quiet in the cabin again, and the silence still haunts her, the unknowingness of tomorrow. She thinks about Raven, about Wick and his desperation for her. About Jasper. _Bellamy_ -

There's a knock on her door, and Clarke winces, sliding the nail into her pocket.

She clears her throat. "Come in."

The door widens slowly, wood gentle on the floorboards as Bellamy pushes it open. She exhales deeply, watching him, the tension in her shoulders - and her mind - dissolving at the sight of him. He closes the door behind him, turning to her and crossing his arms over his chest.

"You can't sleep," he murmurs.

It's not a question. "No."

Bellamy releases a long breath. It's dark in the room, but she can still see the outline of his freckles in the dimness, those eyes that could burn down cities, lead an army. He walks towards her and leans against the wall in front of her, her hands trembling at the softness in his gaze.

He narrows his eyes, watching her. "What are you thinking about?"

She shakes her head. Everything. _An escape. Using a nail as a weapon. Losing everyone. Losing you_. She's thinking about everything and how there's nothing she can do about it.

Clarke looks away from him. "How much I want this to work," she whispers.

"Maybe it will."

She closes her eyes. "You don't believe that."

There's a pause, and she hears the creaking of wood, the movement of his heat. He steps forward and curls his finger under her chin, tilting her face towards him. His touch is gentle, soft, and she sighs deeply before opening her eyes.

Bellamy gazes at her. Those powerful depths. "If we're safe here, we can make it work," he murmurs. "We don't have to trust them, not yet. But we can learn to."

"How?"

He seems to consider this for a moment. His eyes strained as he looks at her.

"I don't know," he whispers eventually, and it crushes her.

She swallows thickly, shaking her head. He's supposed to know. He's Bellamy, he's supposed to figure it out, he's supposed to help her and comfort her and tell her everything is going to be okay. He's supposed to know.

She leans forward, her voice cracking.

"Then what the hell are we doing, Bell?"

He stares at her, his eyes burning in that familiar sense of chaos. The chaos that lifts them up before it brings them down. He moves his fingers along her jaw, her neck, and he cups her cheek, bringing her closer.

She see's it now. The fire in his eyes. She finally see's it again.

"Clarke." Her name is a broken word on his lips, making her shudder. "I thought you were dead. For weeks. I thought they killed you and I'd never see you again. You know that?"

She nods. She thought the same thing about him.

"And then I found you, and I just thought - " He curses, breathing deep, his palm hardening against her face. "That's the only thing that matters. You. Octavia. The group. The only thing that matters is keeping you alive, and not allowing any of us to give up. That's what I'm living for."

She looks at him, and she see's the pain in his eyes, the brokenness. Broken. They're all broken. Shattered into pieces - jagged and uneven pieces that fit together. The pieces she didn't know what to do with when they were apart.

Because that's what happens. They fall apart, and then they fall back together; sloppy and chaotic. Bellamy lowers his forehead against hers, and she releases a shuddering breath, recognizing the determination in his gaze.

Clarke closes her eyes. "Don't."

He shakes his head, holding her face between his hands. "I love you, Clarke," he whispers, and it's so fierce that it makes her whimper. "And I don't think I'm ever going to stop."

"Bellamy - "

"And if that means I have to protect you from countless more people, have to suffer through countless more days, to keep you safe, I will. I'll do whatever it takes. I'll do whatever you want."

His fingers wipe at the skin underneath her eyes, and she nods against him, because she knows. She knows he'll do as much for her as she will for him, that he'll carry her demons when she becomes too tired - no matter how many times she refuses or pushes him away. No matter how many times he comes back.

And it's stupid, because her father always told her not to expose her weaknesses. But she already has. Her weakness has always been there, standing beside her, helping her. It's Bellamy. Her weakness and her strength. Her everything.

 _Bellamy_. Bellamy Bellamy Bellamy. And if love is weakness, then she's so God damn weak.

And so is he.

Bellamy sighs, closing his eyes and traces patterns on her skin with his thumbs. "I love you," he whispers, again and again, and it feels like coming home. "I do. I selfishly and completely love you."

He glances at her then, those eyes consuming her in flames. Dangerous and triumphant pain. She shivers despite the warmth that surrounds her, and she looks up at him, her blue depths of ice meeting his of fire.

"Bell."

His name is pleasant on her lips, and she steps closer to him. She's tired of what she's done to them, what she's forbid them of being. He is Bellamy, and he is weakness and strength, and she accepts it, she does. And she still needs him.

And so Clarke reaches forward, her hands on the nape of his neck as she presses her lips upon his.

And finally. Just like that - she can breathe again.

It's not like the first time they kissed, when there was death and chaos in the air surrounding them. There is still death. There is still chaos. But this time they don't care. It doesn't matter. Death is everywhere, and so is love, so is he.

So she kisses him, truly kisses him, and her heart almost collapses at the weight of his lips on hers. His mouth consumes her, intoxicating her with the same force of the fire that rests in his eyes, and she feels it in every core of her body, in every vein.

Bellamy exhales, his palms hard on her skin as he pulls away. She whimpers, wanting him, but he shakes his head, and she doesn't even feel the tears on her cheeks until he covers her face with his lips, kissing every teardrop that remains on her skin.

She looks at him, her heart shattering at the pain in his eyes. At the reflection of the pain in hers. She swallows thickly - because he knows. He knows why she's crying. And it's not because of him. It's not because of them.

It's because of Cage. And the memories that still haunt her with him.

Clarke closes her eyes. "I'm sorry."

Bellamy shakes his head. "Sh," he soothes. "Don't be."

She tries to smile, but it collapses before her lips can turn, and her face shatters with it. He pulls her into his chest, pressing his lips on her forehead as she buries herself inside his warmth. _Bellamy Cage Bellamy Cage. Love hatred love hatred._

It hurts, but with love also comes feeling, and the feeling of certain incidents she wishes to forget, but she cannot, and not because she is weak, or because she is strong. But because she is human.

And it's the best and worst quality to have in this world - being human. There is no possible way of feeling love without experiencing hate, no probability of being hopeful without being doubted.

Clarke sighs, feeling Bellamy's lips on her skin, trying not to think of the last man who did the same.

"It's okay," Bellamy whispers, holding her close to him. "You're okay."

It's late in the evening when she wakes up again, his body pressed into her as he breathes warm air into her neck. She sighs, turning to look at him, tracing her fingers on his cheeks.

There's a knock on the door then, and Octavia enters the bedroom, rigid.

Clarke sits up in the mattress.

"Tristan's here," she says, and Bellamy stirs beside her. "He says their feast is about to begin."

Clarke nods. _Love hatred strength weakness_. And she wakes Bellamy up, his eyes hard when she tells him they're leaving, the nail dug tightly inside her pockets as Tristan leads them towards the banquet hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom. Out. Hope you guys enjoyed this short chapter before the next and final update of this instalment But Bellamy and Clarke are back together - yay! The last scene was really hard to write, having to cut their romance short and put in the reality of Clarke's experience with Cage. Which, going forward, will still affect her. (Don't worry, doesn't mean she's any less badass. Especially with that nail, wait till you see what she does with that).
> 
> Anyways, what do you guys think? Tristan good? Tristan bad? Is the feast some plot? And if so - FOR WHAT? AND ARE THE REAPERS EVEN REAL?! So many questions and only one more chapter to go. Get ready to say goodbye to a few characters!
> 
> I hope you guys have a goodnight and let me know any of ur thoughts in the comment section below. I have a very busy couple of days ahead so last chapter should be up by next Sunday but we'll see. Xoxo, have an awesome week!

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Bellarking!!!! xoxo


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